a prompt response (is only polite)
by shineyma
Summary: A collection of responses to prompts I receive on tumblr. [Chapter 85 is new on 3/22 and this collection is complete. See "a second collection (is totally necessary)" for further drabbles.]
1. Fire Alarm at 3 am AU

A/N: Anonymous said: "from that one au meme: 3am and the fire alarm in our apartment complex just went off let me lend you my jacket while we wait on the sidewalk, biospecialist. pretty please?"

* * *

It's been a long, horrible day, and the only thing Grant Ward wants to do when he gets home is fall into bed. Which is why, when the fire alarm goes off as he's entering his bedroom, he gives serious thought to ignoring it. But it's nearly three in the morning, so chances of this being a drill are slim. He's exhausted, aching, and so sick of everything that he might actually shoot the next person he sees, but he's not stupid.

So he heaves a sigh and goes outside, grabbing his boots from their place by the door as he goes.

He knows as soon as he sets foot in the hall that it's the right decision; he can smell smoke and hear panicked shouting from the floor above. And, as he exits the building, he can see flames coming from one of the upstairs windows. It's not a large fire, at the moment, but it's obviously spreading, and he spares a moment to be grateful for his timing as he considers his chances of getting back into the building tonight.

If the fire alarm _had_ to go off, he's glad that it did so when he was just home from work. He has his cell phone, his wallet, and his keys—it will be no trouble to drive to a hotel and get a room for the night. He's especially grateful that he's still fully dressed; it's freezing outside, and he does not envy the other residents of his building, most of whom are standing around in their pajamas.

One in particular draws his attention: a young woman he's seen in passing, but never spoken to, is only wearing a tank top and thin cotton pants. She's obviously miserable, shivering and bouncing in place, and without even thinking about it, he moves towards her.

Grant's usually pretty good at talking to people. He doesn't _like_ it, but he's good at it. Being able to charm people is a pretty useful skill, in his line of work, and he takes full advantage of it. But right now he's exhausted and sore, so he doesn't say anything when he reaches the woman's side. He just takes off his jacket and offers it to her wordlessly.

For a moment, he thinks she's going to refuse it, but then she takes it from him with a grateful smile.

"Thank you," she says, fumbling with the zipper pull. He's a good sight larger than her, and she struggles with the sleeves for a moment, but eventually she manages to zip it up. "Usually I would insist that you keep it, but it _is_ very cold out, and you do have that jumper, which looks nicely warm, so…thank you. It's very kind."

"Don't mention it," he says. Honestly, he has no idea _why_ he just gave her his jacket; he's not enough of a gentleman to give up his best source of warmth when it's this cold out, and yet. Here he is. Without his jacket.

"I'm Jemma, by the way," she tells him. She gives him a little wave and then tucks her hands into the sleeves of his jacket.

"Grant," he says. "Nice to meet you."

"Pleasure's mine," she says.

The fire is bigger, now, bathing the street in an orange glow, and he's briefly distracted by how well it suits Jemma, how it seems to light her hair and make her eyes shine. Then he shakes his head, because that's a really fucking bizarre thing to think.

Maybe those accusations of pyromania weren't so unfounded, after all.

Well, she's beautiful, regardless. He's always thought so. He's considered, more than once, stopping her in the hall to speak to her. He's imagined it before, planned out what to say and how to say it, strategized the best way to approach her, the most effective way to put her at ease—because a woman who lives alone (which he's pretty sure she does) has plenty to fear from a strange man, and he doesn't want to scare her.

He's never gone through with it, though. He works long hours—long weeks, really—and usually by the time he gets home he's so exhausted that human interaction is the last thing he wants.

He's exhausted now, but he thinks his chances of getting back inside tonight are slim. He can't leave to find a hotel until there's word on the damage to the building, though, so why not take the opportunity to finally ask her out?

In a manner of speaking, at least. It's three in the morning, and giving her his jacket doesn't make him automatically trustworthy. He doesn't want to scare her off by coming on too strong, so it's best to start simply.

"This looks like it's gonna be a while," he says over the sirens of the approaching fire trucks.

"It does, doesn't it?" Jemma agrees miserably. She's still obviously freezing, despite his jacket, and it gives him an idea.

"There's a twenty-four hour diner just down the street," he says, jerking a thumb in its direction. "Buy you a cup of coffee?"

She shakes her head. "I can't accept that. You've already lent me your jacket, which is more than you had to do."

"It's not about what I have to do, it's about what I _want_ to do," he counters. "And what I _want_ to do is buy a beautiful woman a cup of coffee."

He regrets it as soon as he says it, afraid that bringing her looks into it might give her the wrong idea, but, luckily, it doesn't. He can see her wavering and gives her his best charming smile.

"I can see you getting frostbite, there," he says, nodding at the way she has her hands tucked under her arms. "I don't know what you do for a living, but I bet it'd be a lot harder without fingers."

That surprises a laugh out of her, and she shakes her head.

"I'm hardly in danger of _frostbite_," she denies. "But you're right, it would be." She bites her lip. "You're _sure_ you don't mind?"

"I'm sure."

"All right, then," she says. "I would love a cup of coffee, thank you."

He steps back and motions in the direction of the diner. "Lead the way."

Jemma hesitates for a moment, then steps closer to him and slips her arm through his. _That_ is a very encouraging sign, and he has the bizarre urge to fistpump. (He resists it, of course—what is he, a frat boy?)

"I've never been there before," she says, a little tentatively. "So I suppose _you'll_ have to lead."

"Gladly," he says, and they set off down the sidewalk, arm in arm.

(And if his heart is hammering in his chest like it hasn't since he asked Michelle Carmichael to the freshman homecoming dance more than twelve years ago, well…it's not like anyone can tell by looking at him.)


	2. High School Teachers AU

A/N: Anonymous said: "Prompt: High school teachers au? (biospecialist)"

* * *

It's been said more than once that Jemma Simmons is possessed of a saintly amount of patience. The sentiment is generally expressed whenever someone learns that she teaches high school chemistry, and she always laughs it off. Teaching, admittedly, does require a certain temperament, but patience has little to do with it.

Jemma _loves _teaching. Science was and always will be her first love, but teaching is her passion. She considers it her duty to instil wonder in her students, to open their eyes to the sheer _possibility_ the world offers, and she succeeds more often than one might expect, considering the general apathy that most teenagers seem to approach life with.

(Of course, if given the opportunity, Jemma can speak for _hours_ on how today's teenagers are misrepresented, how they respond with apathy because they are _treated_ with apathy, and the importance of giving teenagers the respect they deserve as human beings, rather than automatically dismissing them on the basis of age…but that's beside the point.)

In any case, it's Jemma's passion for the subject that helps her through the downsides of the job, not patience. Actually, patience is one area where she can be said to be slightly lacking. Not to say that she's _impatient_, precisely, just that she's not _overly_ patient. In fact, if pressed, Jemma would argue that she has a perfectly normal amount of patience.

Unfortunately, it is being sorely tested today.

It's been one of those days where everything seems to go wrong, starting with the storm that knocked her power off and forced her to skip her morning cup of tea which, at the risk of sounding like a cultural stereotype, was just unforgiveable. She rushed out of her house with the intention of stopping somewhere to buy a drink, and in the process forgot her umbrella, which meant she got soaked on her walk from the subway. Then there was a power outage at the school during third period, interrupting a test she was giving. It came back quickly enough, but the students were thoroughly distracted, and she suspects their grades will reflect it.

She hates it when her students earn poor grades. Not because of the way it reflects on her, but because of the way it affects them. In her years of teaching, she's discovered that a single poor mark can lead a student to give up on a course entirely. And, for the most part, once a student accepts failure as inevitable, no amount of extra credit or tutoring will convince them otherwise.

So, with the knowledge that at least a quarter of her class failed to complete the exam hanging over her head, she's in a terrible mood as she sits down for lunch. Of course, 'lunch' is a generous term for what she's eating. Since she was in such a hurry this morning, she didn't have time to pack herself a lunch, as is her custom. Therefore, her meal consists of a bag of pretzels and a package of peanut butter crackers, both from the vending machine in the teacher's lounge.

She's in such a bad mood that she's actually considering breaking in to the emergency cash she keeps buried in a drawer of her desk and using it to buy herself some chocolate. It would obviously be a ridiculous thing to do, but she needs _something_ to cheer her up, or the second half of the day will be just as horrid as the first.

"This seat taken?"

Ask and ye shall receive, as the saying goes. With that simple question, her day is suddenly looking much brighter.

"Not at all," she says, moving her bag aside to emphasize how taken the seat isn't.

Grant gives her one of his little half-smiles as he sits down, and Jemma tries not to smile _too_ brightly in return.

Grant Ward teaches Italian and Russian, coaches the boys' basketball team, and is the (hopefully oblivious) object of Jemma's affections. His looks alone would be enough to make him the subject of many a schoolgirl crush (and do, in fact), but it's his deadpan sense of humour, his quiet charm, and his dedication to his students that have cemented his place in Jemma's heart.

Well, all right, _and_ his looks. Jemma doesn't think she can be blamed for that—Michelangelo himself would have wept to sculpt such cheekbones.

"That's not much of a lunch," Grant comments as he unpacks his sandwich.

"I was in a bit of a hurry this morning," Jemma says, opening her crackers. "I woke with no power."

"Lot of that going around," he says dryly.

"Don't remind me," she sighs, resting her cheek against her fist. "I was in the middle of giving an exam."

Grant grimaces in sympathy. "Did you get the kids back on track?"

"No," she says. She pokes despondently at her crackers. "Some of them didn't even reach the last page."

"Ouch," he winces. "I guess that explains why you were looking like someone cancelled Christmas when I walked in."

"Was it that obvious?" she asks.

"Afraid so." He leans forward, propping his elbows on the table. "Maybe I can cheer you up."

She has several suggestions on that front, but manages to refrain from sharing them by reminding herself that she is a professional and this is her place of employment.

"How so?"

"I've got two tickets to _Cinderella_ on Broadway this Friday," he says. "I hear you're a fan?"

Her heart gives a hopeful little lurch, and she sternly instructs it not to be ridiculous. He can't mean what she thinks he does. She's misunderstood him, that's all.

"I am," she agrees. She's proud of how steady her voice is, because her heart is _not_ cooperating. "Why?"

Grant laughs a little under his breath and shakes his head. "You're not gonna make it easy on me, huh?"

"…I'm sorry?" she asks.

"Jemma," he says. "I was _hoping_ you would do me the honour of accompanying me to see _Cinderella_ this weekend. Just the two of us. On a date."

He gives a little nod after the last word, as though emphasizing his sincerity, and Jemma is completely floored.

That…he…

She has spent _two years_ feeling pathetic for the way her heart ties itself in knots around this man. And she's spent a good portion of that time consoling herself with the knowledge that her complete inability to muster up the courage to share her feelings with him is irrelevant, since there's no way he could _possibly_ return those feelings.

Yet here he is, sitting in front of her and asking her to see a Broadway show with him. Not just any show, either, but one based on her favourite fairy tale. Her mind, usually so agile, has stuttered completely to a halt, and she has _no idea_ what to say.

Grant is starting to look concerned, obviously misreading her silence, and she panics a little, fearing that he'll withdraw the offer.

"Yes!" she blurts, perhaps a little louder than she intends. She takes a deep breath and makes a concerted effort to lower her voice. "I mean, I…I'd like that very much."

Grant grins at her, making her breath catch in her throat. In the years she's known him, she's never seen him smile so widely, and she's absurdly grateful for it. If she had seen, before today, the way his face lights up with this sort of smile, there is no _way_ she could have kept from throwing herself at him.

(It's still incredibly tempting, of course, but…they have a _date_. On _Friday_. She can wait that long, certainly?)

"Great," he says. He clears his throat, then continues, a little uncertainly. "The show's at eight, so would you…wanna get dinner first?"

"That would be nice," she says. She bites her lip, trying to hold back what would undoubtedly be an utterly foolish smile.

"Great," he repeats. "That's—"

The bell cuts him off, and he checks his watch and swears.

"I was supposed to be in the gym five minutes ago," he says apologetically. "Can we…?"

"We can settle the arrangements later," she assures him. "I'll see you at the faculty meeting this afternoon?"

"Right," he says. He gathers up his trash and stands. "See you later."

She watches him leave, still completely dumbfounded, and as she does so, a thought occurs to her. Exactly how does he know she's a _Cinderella_ fan? They've discussed all manner of topics over the course of their time working together, but she's fairly certain that her love of classic fairy tales never came up.

She's pulled out of her pondering by the late bell, and she does a little swearing of her own as she collects her things and hurries to her classroom. She catches a glimpse of her reflection in the trophy case as she passes it, and is not at all surprised to see the wide smile on her face.

If nothing else, her day has improved _exponentially. _


	3. Blind Date AU

A/N: Anonymous said: "Prompt: biospecialist blind date"

* * *

Not for the first time, Grant Ward wonders exactly what he did in a previous life to deserve a sister like Skye.

"I don't know," Skye says. "But it must have been _really great_. Like saving a bunch of orphans from a bomb."

"Or terrible," he mutters, throwing himself onto the couch. "Like destroying an entire civilization."

Skye kicks him.

"Skye, come _on_."

"You owe me a favor," she reminds him. "Remember? That time in the place with the thing?"

"You swore you'd never mention that again!"

"Yeah, hence the vague. And _you_ said you owed me big time. This is me calling it in!"

"But why _this_?" he asks. It's perilously close to a whine. "Skye—"

"It's _one date_, Grant," she interrupts. "I'm not asking for your kidney, here."

"That would be preferable," he says.

"You are such a drama queen," she groans. "It's ridiculous."

"_You're_ ridiculous. Who sets their brother up on a blind date?"

"Someone who's embarrassed by the complete disaster that is their brother's love life," Skye answers brightly.

"It is _not_ a dis—"

"When was the last time you had a relationship that lasted longer than two months?" she demands.

Grant takes a moment to think about that. Then he decides not to incriminate himself by answering, because it _has_ been a really long time.

"And you think the best way to start a long-term relationship is with a blind date?" he asks instead.

"I think the best way to start a long-term relationship is with _any_ date," she corrects. "Now thank me for being concerned and then shut up."

He sighs. He's confident in his ability to talk her out of this eventually, but honestly, it would probably take longer than the date itself would. And even if he does talk her out of it, he'll never hear the end of it. Better to go, get it over with, and prove that it's a horrible idea.

It's just dinner, anyway. How bad could it be?

x

So it is that Friday night, he finds himself at an Italian restaurant a few blocks from Skye's apartment. The place is semi-casual, so at least he doesn't have to wear a suit, but he still feels a little ridiculous as he gives the maître'd his name.

"Ah, yes," the man says. "Right this way, Mr. Ward. Your guest is already here."

Shit. Is he late? He checks his watch—no, he's five minutes early. He was expecting to have some time to prepare himself for this.

He takes a deep breath and follows the maître'd through the restaurant. This isn't a big deal. All he has to do is be reasonably friendly—enough so that Skye's friend won't complain about him to her—and get through dinner. Then he'll never have to do this again, because he'll have proof that it doesn't work, which he can bring up any time Skye tries to set him up.

He manages to hold on to his confidence for about as long as it takes to cross the restaurant and reach his table. Then, once he lays eyes on his date, it evaporates like it was never there at all.

She's _gorgeous_.

Grant's really good at playing it cool, but somewhere inside of him the twelve-year-old boy who couldn't say a complete sentence around girls still lurks, just waiting to trip him up. Which is why, whenever he sees a beautiful woman, part of him is expecting to make a complete ass of himself. He always manages to keep his composure—he is _really good_ at playing it cool—but the fear's always there, and this time is no different.

He shoves it aside impatiently and gives the woman a smile. "Hi. Jemma?"

"Yes," she says, standing and offering her hand. "You must be Grant."

He shakes her hand, weirdly charmed by the gesture (do people usually shake hands on a blind date?), and then takes his seat. There are already menus on the table, and the maître'd excuses himself with the promise that their waiter will be along shortly.

"Have you ever been here before?" Jemma asks, looking down at her menu.

He glances at the menu as well, mostly out of reflex. He always gets lasagne at Italian restaurants—the ones in America, at least. Once you've spent eight months eating Italian food in Italy, the American places are kind of ruined, and he compensates by always getting the same thing. That way he's uniformly disappointed, and never gets his hopes up.

Of course, at this point, he's had so much bad lasagne that he actually kind of hates it, but…details.

"No," he says, a bit belatedly, remembering her question. "But a friend of mine has. He said it was good."

"Well, that's nice," Jemma says.

It's awkward. It's so, painfully, awkward, and even though that's exactly what he was expecting, it still kind of bugs him. He should…make conversation or something, right?

He's so out of practice with dating. The only conversations he has with women these days are when he's interviewing witnesses or suspects.

"So, Jemma," he says, prompting her to look up from her menu. "What do you do for a living?"

"Oh, I'm a biochemist," she answers brightly. "I'm working on medical research at the moment, but I've an offer to work in bioinformatics, which I'm considering accepting."

Okay. He doesn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't that. He doesn't need to know what bioinformatics is to understand that the woman sitting across from him is very, very smart.

"Wow," he says. "I'm impressed. Where on earth did you meet my sister?"

As far as he knows, the circles Skye runs in tend to be less academic and more…what's the word? Cyber terrorist. She thinks he doesn't know about the Rising Tide, but he saw her name on a watch list a few months ago.

Which reminds him, they really need to have words about that.

"We met through Fitz," Jemma says a little absently, distracted by the approach of a waiter.

He waits until they've placed their orders to ask the obvious question.

"Who's Fitz?"

Jemma's eyes widen in alarm, and she looks suddenly shifty. She clears her throat, takes a sip of her water, and straightens her place setting, all the while avoiding eye contact.

"Fitz? Did I say Fitz? I meant we met because we…fit," she stammers.

Wow. That's the worst attempt at lying he's ever seen. Not only does that not make any sense, but she's ticking off every box on the 'how to tell if someone is lying' list. He doesn't even bother to reply to it, just looks at her. He's broken hardened criminals with his stare, and Jemma stands no chance. She buckles in less than thirty seconds.

"Fine, fine," she sighs. "But you _can't_ tell Skye I told you. She made me _promise_ not to bring it up; she's going to be so angry."

Now he's a little concerned. "Angry about what?"

"Fitz is my best friend," she says. "We went through school together, and we work together, and six months ago, he introduced me to Skye…when they started dating."

Wait. What?

"_Dating_?" he demands.

"Oh, this is why I wasn't supposed to say anything," she mourns, tipping her head back to stare at the ceiling. He's briefly distracted by the curve of her jaw, but shakes it off as she looks back down at him. "Skye said you would be angry if you found out—"

"Damn straight I am," he mutters. What the hell, Skye? She's been dating some guy for six months and hasn't said a word about it? Who knows who this guy is? Grant _always_ runs background checks on Skye's boyfriends—how else can he and Skye be sure that they're not murderers or conmen or art thieves?

"_But_," Jemma continues over him. "I have known Fitz since we were at university together when we were thirteen, and I can _assure_ you he is a good man, who will never do _anything_ to hurt Skye. Or anyone else, for that matter. He's a very gentle soul. Do you know, he gets faint at the sight of blood? We used to have _so_ many arguments about the dissections I did as part of my courses, and you know, he _still_ brings up the stupid cat, which I feel is a little—"

His anger is calmed a little at his shock that Jemma (and Skye's boyfriend, apparently) went to college when she was thirteen. Then it calms a little more at the news that Skye's boyfriend can't stand the sight of blood—threatening him will be even easier than Grant expected—and it all but disappears as Jemma continues to speak.

Well, babble, really. Somehow she's gotten on to the topic of her second doctoral thesis (second? So there was a first? She's at least three years younger than him, which means she's not even thirty yet, and she has two doctorates? Just how smart _is_ she?) and is enthusiastically explaining it to him. Or trying, rather, since he can't follow it at all.

But she's beautiful, her face lit up with her excitement, and he likes women who _care_ about things. Nothing's less attractive than a woman who feigns disinterest for fear of appearing uncool, and there's obviously no risk of that from Jemma.

She's beautiful, and interesting, and it really can't hurt to finish the date, can it? Skye's been dating this guy for six months—the interrogation and background check can wait another few hours.

"I'm sorry," Jemma says suddenly, interrupting herself in the middle of a sentence. "I do tend to go on about my work. You should've stopped me!"

He shakes his head. "It's interesting. I mean, I didn't understand a word of it, but…I was listening."

"Well, that's," Jemma looks away, but she's obviously pleased. "But I'd like to hear about _you_. Skye says you travel often? What is it that you do?"

"I work for Interpol," he says. "I'm the lead agent on an Incident Response Team."

Jemma's eyes widen. "Goodness. I can't say I was expecting _that_."

"Yeah, well," Grant shrugs. "I wasn't expecting Marie Curie."

It's a pretty lame joke—Marie Curie's literally the only female scientist he can think of off the top of his head, and he doesn't even remember what kind of science she did—but it earns a laugh from Jemma anyway.

She's even lovelier when she laughs, and it gives him a warm feeling to be the one who caused it.

"Marie Curie studied physics and chemistry, not biochemistry," she corrects him. "But I take your point. I suppose neither of us is having our expectations met, tonight."

"Is that a bad thing?" he asks. He's surprised by how much he hopes it's not—how much he hopes she's willing to stick around for the rest of the date.

"No," Jemma says at once. "Not at all." The smile she gives him is a little shy. "Actually, I rather like it."

"Yeah," he says. "Me, too."

They sit there, just smiling at each other, until the moment is broken when their waiter appears with their food. As Grant busies himself with unwrapping the cloth napkin from around his silverware, he's already considering how to ask her out for a second date.

Skye is _never_ going to let him live this down but, as Jemma begins to share a story of a prank she and that Fitz guy pulled when they were grad students, Grant can't bring himself to regret it. He may even thank her for it, someday.

But he's still running a background check on her boyfriend.


	4. Waking up in Vegas AU

A/N: darkangelcryo said: "Biospecialist waking up in Vegas (with or without money involved)"

* * *

One wouldn't think it to look at her, but Jemma Simmons' tolerance for alcohol is the stuff of legends.

During her time at uni, her friends more than once tried to calculate the exact rate at which she metabolized alcohol, and failed every time—although, granted, that was mostly because they could never remain sober long enough to complete the experiment.

The point is, it takes a lot to get Jemma Simmons drunk. Which is a shame, because sometimes a woman just wants to celebrate an important milestone by doing something young, foolish, and spontaneous, and it's difficult to accomplish such a thing when becoming drunk requires a five-step plan and very deep pockets.

But never let it be said that Jemma Simmons shies away from _anything_ just because it's not easy. Earning two PhDs before she was twenty, _that_ was difficult. Becoming the youngest ever graduate of the SHIELD Academy of Science and Technology (she's twenty three days younger than Fitz, you know), _that_ was difficult.

Celebrating her twenty-first birthday by getting soused in Las Vegas with some of her female colleagues? It's a challenge, but it's completely doable.

Which, to her later regret, she proves quite spectacularly.

Jemma's first thought upon waking is to mentally congratulate herself for her excellent genetics, because despite the fact that she doesn't remember a single thing that happened after the third bar, she's not in any pain at all. Apparently, her excellent alcohol tolerance also translates to a natural immunity to hangovers.

Her second thought is that she's nicely warm, which is odd, since she has a habit of kicking off her blankets during the night. Usually she's freezing when she wakes up in the morning.

Her third thought is more of a mental exclamation point than anything coherent, because it's at that point that she realizes exactly _why_ she's so warm, and the _why_ is the very naked, very _male_ person currently spooning her.

Oh, dear. All right. Well.

It's certainly not how she was _expecting_ to wake up, but there's nothing wrong with this, is there? There's no harm in celebrating her twenty-first birthday with some meaningless sex with a stranger. Just so long as he's not, say, a serial killer, it's not a problem.

She really hopes he's not a serial killer.

Especially since a few, scattered memories are beginning to come back to her, and they're…extremely pleasant. Also, it would appear that she didn't have 'some' meaningless sex—there was, actually, rather a lot of it. And not all of it in her hotel room, either; she thinks they may have crossed the line into public indecency in the lift.

Well, he may be a (potential) serial killer, but performance-wise, she truly can't fault drunk Jemma's taste in men.

Now. How to gracefully extract herself from this situation? Her…one-night stand (she's had a one night stand! In Las Vegas! What an excellent life experience!) is still asleep, but he's curled around her in a manner that might make leaving without waking him difficult.

As has already been established, just because something is difficult is no reason to give up without trying, so she makes a go of it. Perhaps unfortunately, she's barely even twitched toward the side of the bed when the man holding her shifts, inhales, and very noticeably tenses.

"Shit," he mutters, and rolls away from her.

A little offended, she turns over to face him. He's lying flat on his back, the heels of his hands pressed against his eyes, and she takes the opportunity to examine him.

Well. He's certainly attractive, isn't he? Look at those _cheekbones_, goodness. And a nicely defined musculature, too. Aesthetically _and_ sexually pleasing (if her few memories are any indication) then. Apparently she has _spectacular_ judgment whilst plastered. Well done, drunk Jemma.

He also, she realizes belatedly, appears to be in a bit of pain. Presumably he is _not_ possessed of the same wonderful hangover-resistant genes as she, and, taking pity on him, she slides out of bed in search of her handbag.

As she does so, she realizes that she, too, is very naked, so she snags a t-shirt which must be his (it's hanging from the lampshade, interestingly enough) and pulls it on as she walks across the room.

Her handbag is lying on its side, next to the door, and she picks it up and digs through it until she finds the aspirin bottle—at the very bottom, naturally. She shakes two pills out of the bottle, returns it to her bag, and then carries them over to the bed, dropping her handbag on a conveniently placed chair as she goes. She detours slightly to take a bottle of water out of the minibar, and then climbs back into bed.

"Here," she says, nudging the man. "These might help."

He pulls his hands away from his eyes—which are a very lovely shade of brown—and looks doubtfully from the offered tablets to her and back again.

"They're just aspirins," she promises. "You can trust me; I'm a doctor."

He huffs a little laugh and sits up, accepting the tablets and the bottle of water. He sensibly checks the seal on the bottle, then knocks back the pills and drains half the bottle in one go. Jemma is briefly mesmerized by the motion of his throat as he swallows, but forces herself to look away.

She's in bed with a strange man, whose name she does _not_ know, and with whom she had a truly impressive amount of sex last night. She's never been so irresponsible in her life; it's a bit thrilling, to be honest.

But also a little awkward.

"So," she says as he sets the water aside. "I'm Jemma."

She offers her hand, because, well, it's the polite thing to do, isn't it?

He huffs another laugh and shakes her hand. "Nice to meet you, Jemma. I'm…"

He trails off, the smile dropping away from his face instantly, and, concerned, she follows his gaze.

No.

No, that cannot be what she thinks it is. There is _not_ a ring on the fourth finger of her left hand. It's not possible.

Gripped with dread, she looks away from her left hand and to that of the man in bed with her—she still hasn't got his name. Sure enough, he's got one, too.

"I don't suppose," she says, impressing herself with how calm she sounds. "That you had that before last night?"

"No," he says, frowning down at the ring. "I didn't."

"Oh, well," she says, pulling her ring off and holding it up for a closer look. "I'm sure this is just a misunderstanding. Oh! Or a prank! Erica seems the type, I think."

"Maybe," he agrees. Then he sighs. "Or maybe not."

She looks away from the ring to see him pulling a piece of paper off the bedside table.

"Tell me that's not what I think it is," she begs, closing her eyes briefly.

"If you think it's a marriage certificate," he says. "I can't do that."

For lack of anything better to do with it, she slides the ring back on her finger, then extends a hand. He passes her the paper, and, steeling herself, she looks down at it. The document proclaims itself a Marriage Certificate in large, stylized font, and, even though it's exactly what she was expecting, the sight of the words makes her feel oddly dizzy for a moment.

Examining the rest of the document, she discovers that the man (her new husband, a part of her mind points out somewhat hysterically) is named Grant Douglas Ward, and that he is—originally, at least—of Plymouth, Massachusetts.

She stares at the certificate for a long moment, still feeling slightly dizzy. Her mind is entirely blank.

"I'm not even a citizen," she finally says. It's the first thing that comes to mind. "Don't you need to be a citizen to get married in a country?"

"I'm not an expert," he says. "But I think all you need is proof of residence."

And of course she carries her green card everywhere—even if she didn't, her SHIELD badge would probably…

Oh. Bugger.

She's going to have to report this to SHIELD, isn't she? She's going to have to admit that she became impaired enough to believe that marrying a complete stranger was a good idea. That, of course, will lead to the question of exactly what else she may have considered a good idea. Doubtless someone will make the point that she could easily have decided to share SHIELD's secrets, rather than get married, and her security clearance will be revoked and she'll be sanctioned and removed from her lab posting and probably made a _lab assistant_ in some _backwater research station_, and Fitz will _never forgive her_, and—

"Hey," the man—her husband—_Grant_ says. "Take a deep breath."

She does so.

"Good. Now let it out. Slowly."

Again, she complies, imagining her panic leaving her alongside the carbon dioxide, and it helps.

Reason returns. Jemma's a very valuable SHIELD asset. That's not arrogance, it's fact. SHIELD has invested a considerable amount of time and effort into her; they won't allow her genius to fall by the wayside after all of that work. She'll likely face disciplinary action, and she may be placed under surveillance for a while, but she won't be removed from her position.

"Thank you," she says, taking another deep breath. "I'm sorry; this is just a little…"

"Insane?" he supplies when she trails off. "Nothing to be sorry for. I'm _right_ there with you."

She smiles, a touch helplessly. "Yes, I suppose you are." She looks down at her hand again, running her thumb along the gold band decorating her finger. "So. What next?"

"Next," Grant sighs. "Next, we get dressed. And then…we'll see what happens."

"Yes, right," she nods. She looks down at the t-shirt she's wearing. "I guess you'll need this back, then."

"Not that it doesn't look better on you," he says with a little half smile. "But, yeah."

They get dressed and take turns freshening up in the loo. Jemma's just putting her socks on (and she's so grateful that she was wearing her normal clothes last night; this is awkward enough without wearing a mini-skirt like Sonja wanted her to) when she hears the distinctive sound of a mobile vibrating against a hard surface.

She picks the mobile in question up from the bedside table. It's more than a little amusing—their clothes were scattered all over the room, obviously discarded without care last night, but apparently they both took the time to safely deposit their mobiles on the table.

The alert was for a text message; it's a simple '_Status_?' from someone named Trip, and she realizes this must be Grant's phone. She should probably let him know that his friend is wondering where he is. She hopes he won't be upset that she accidentally looked at his mobile—some people are very touchy about that sort of thing. (Jemma included.)

"Grant, you've got—" she breaks off, shocked by the familiar bar at the top of the screen. "Oh! You're with SHIELD!"

Grant, standing just at the end of the bed, tenses. She can see him considering what course of action to take—he _must_ be an Operations agent of some sort—and rushes to reassure him.

"No, it's all right," she says, setting his mobile aside and holding up her own. "I'm a SHIELD agent, as well."

"Are you?" he asks, a little sceptically.

Jemma's not offended. If he told her outright he was with SHIELD, she wouldn't have believed him, either. It's a bit too much of a coincidence, really. She hands over her mobile and watches him take in the secure communications display.

"I'm with SciOps," she tells him. "Level Four biochemist."

Grant pauses in the act of handing back her mobile. "Wait, Simmons? As in _FitzSimmons_?"

"You've heard of us?"

"Hasn't everyone?" he asks dryly. Fair point. "But, I thought you and Fitz were…"

"Oh, no," she assures him. "Strictly platonic."

For a very brief moment, he wears an entirely unreadable look. Then it's replaced by an almost flirty smile.

"Glad to hear it," he says.

That is a _very _effective smile. Did it just get warmer in here?

Shake it off, Jemma, keep the conversation moving. "And you're a field agent, I presume?"

"Specialist, actually," he corrects.

Well, that certainly explains the impressive condition he's in.

"Ah," she says, a little at a loss. "So."

Grant shakes his head and sits down next to her. "My SO is gonna kill me."

One never knows with Operations, but he sounds more amused than worried, so she assumes that's just hyperbole.

They sit in silence for a moment, then Jemma nods at Grant's mobile.

"Are you going to text your friend back?"

He considers his mobile for a moment, then shoves it into his pocket, shaking his head.

"Trip can wait," he says. He stands and offers her his hand. "What do you say we go get some breakfast and talk about our options?"

Accepting his hand, she lets him pull her to her feet.

"Is there very much to talk about?" she wonders. "Divorce seems the obvious answer."

"It does," he agrees. "But…last night, we must have seen _something_ in each other to make us think marriage was a good idea. Don't you wanna find out what it was?"

He's rubbing his thumb across her knuckles as he speaks, and Jemma, despite herself, is a little flustered.

"Why, Agent Ward," she says, shaking it off. "That's almost romantic of you."

"If a man can't be romantic with his wife, when can he?" he asks, tone slightly mocking—in a friendly way, that is. "_Mrs_. Ward."

"That's _Doctor_ Ward, thank you," she corrects primly.

He smiles at her. "My mistake."

"You're forgiven," she says archly. "Just this once."

"Well, that's a relief," he says. He's still holding her hand. "So, doctor? What do you say? Let me take you to breakfast, talk a little before we make any decisions?"

She should say no. He's a complete stranger, and just because the inebriated version of her is good at choosing sexual partners does _not_ mean she's good at choosing husbands. What does she even know about him? He's attractive, he's a SHIELD specialist, and he has a friend named Trip.

And he made her smile, and calmed her down when she was panicking.

It's ridiculous. It's _completely_ ridiculous. She should insist that they go straight to the courthouse and get a divorce. (Does one get divorced at a courthouse? She's never had reason to know.)

But…it's just breakfast. Surely it can't hurt.

The courthouse will still be there when they're done.

"Very well, Grant," she says. "Lead the way."

It's completely ridiculous. But then, isn't that half the fun?


	5. Terminal Illness AU

A/N: darkangelcryo said: "one of them being diagnosed with a terminal illness au"

* * *

Grant takes it calmly. Jemma doesn't.

She pretends to, for his sake; she knows the last thing he needs right now is to worry about comforting her. So she nods seriously and asks relevant questions and holds herself together through sheer force of will. In meeting after meeting, appointment after appointment, she maintains her composure, and never once lets on what she's feeling as one doctor after another says there's nothing to be done to save her husband's life.

She manages to keep up a good front for three weeks, as Grant swiftly deteriorates. When he decides to accept the offer of hospice care, she agrees that it's the best course of action, signs the relevant paperwork, and drives home to pack him a bag while the facility gets him set up.

She holds on to her composure until she reaches their bedroom, and then her legs give out from under her and she collapses to the ground, next to the antique wardrobe Grant's father bought them as a wedding gift.

She looks at it, beautiful and old and it took four people to carry it up the stairs, and is struck by the realization that she's going to have to clear it out. Someday-someday _soon_-she's going to have to go through it and take out Grant's clothes, box them up and do _something_ with them, and there'll be only her clothes left in the wardrobe, and it's so _large_, far too large for only one person-

And suddenly she's crying, great heaving sobs, loud and echoing in the house, which is empty except for her, Grant in hospice and the dog given to friends because they didn't have time to take care of him anymore, not with Grant so ill...

She digs her nails into the carpet and shakes and sobs and remembers the last time she cried like this, the day her father died, except she had Grant, then, Grant to hold her and stroke her hair and tell her she'd be all right, and she's got no one now.

There's no one to tell her she'll be all right. She _won't_ be all right. They've given him less than three months, and she knows, she _knows_ that doctors tend to judge optimistically, in this one area, tend to overestimate the-the remaining time.

In less than three months, she'll be a widow. She'll never be all right again.

She gives herself twenty minutes to cry. Then she gets up and gets to work packing Grant a bag. Her husband is dying, and it's not about her. It's about _him_. So she'll hold on to her composure, keep smiling and hoping, and not worry him with her feelings when he's got his own to deal with.

What else can she do?


	6. One Night Stand Causes Pregnancy AU

A/N: anonymous and darkangelcryo said: "one night stand and falling pregnant au"

* * *

"Hey. Skye…said you wanted to talk to me?"

Grant Ward has a lot of experience with awkward situations. There was that time in middle school when he came home early from a friend's house and found his dad and his dad's best friend's wife in flagrante on the sofa—that was awkward. There was that time in high school when he unwittingly and through no fault of his own ended up dating two different girls at the same time—_that_ was awkward (although not as awkward as the part where he had to explain it to them and they decided the best solution was a threesome). There was that time in college when his roommate's girlfriend walked in on said roommate cheating on her, and it somehow fell to Grant to comfort her—_that_ was _really awkward_.

This, though? Having his sister pass along a request from her best friend—a best friend who he might, possibly, have had a really spectacular one-night stand with three months ago—for a lunch date? This definitely, definitely tops the list of awkward situations he's been in. No contest.

"Yes, thank you," Jemma says, giving him an uncomfortable little smile. "You can, erm, have a seat? If you like?"

Well, at least he's not the only one feeling awkward. He drops into the seat across from her, feeling decidedly out of place. Not just because this is the first time he's seen Jemma since he snuck out of her apartment three months ago, but because the little café they're in is decorated in pastels and pictures of baby animals, and he's here in his leather jacket and torn jeans. The woman behind the counter keeps darting little glances at him like she's just waiting for him to take off with the silverware.

"So," he says, fidgeting with said silverware just to make the woman behind the counter twitch. "What's this about?"

Jemma takes a deep breath. "I'm not sure if you remember, but a few months ago, we…"

"I remember," he assures her, partially because he can see her searching for a delicate way to put it, and doesn't want to be here all day. "I also remember that we decided never to mention it again."

They decided that beforehand, and he's been regretting it ever since, because it was, honestly, the best sex he's ever had, and he might possibly have developed a small crush on her as a result. Which he's trying not to think about, because how pathetic is that? Getting a crush on a woman he had a one-night stand with?

"I know, and normally I would never violate the terms of our agreement," she says, like they signed a pre-nup or something instead of just deciding to pretend it never happened, for fear of affecting their respective relationships with Skye. "But, there have been some unforeseen, erm, _consequences_ of our…dalliance."

"Consequences," he says flatly. He _really really_ hopes this isn't going where he thinks it's going.

Jemma pulls a folded piece of paper out of her purse and slides it across the table to him.

"Congratulations, Grant," she says with a decidedly sardonic smile. "It's a fetus."


	7. Manipulative Ward AU

A/N: Anonymous said: "I really love all of your biospecialist stuff, but could I request a ward who's a little less sweet and a little more manipulative?"

* * *

Grant's not happy about this assignment. The line he gave to Coulson about working better alone was designed to get him on the team, sure, but it was also true. He _does_ work better alone, the team thing _isn't_ his speed, and he really does _not_ appreciate being pulled out of the specialist rotation to be sent around the world investigating weird occurrences.

He's a specialist. His specialties are infiltration and elimination, not playing babysitter/bodyguard for scientists and hackers.

And yet here he is, on the team. Playing babysitter.

John is going to owe him _so damn many_ steak dinners after this. Every time a member of this team does something stupid, or aggravating, or stupid _and_ aggravating, he adds another tally to the list. It's only been a week, and it's already a very, very long list.

But it's worth it, to save John's life. And the glory of HYDRA, blah-blah, whatever. No, he's here to find a way to save John's life, and that's _exactly_ what he's gonna do. So he puts aside his irritation and forces himself to think tactically about the team.

May's good. Dangerous. She earned the name 'The Calvary' in blood, and no one's contesting that. However, she's also fiercely loyal to Coulson and more than a little broken. Being one of SHIELD's deadliest (former) specialists isn't enough to make up for her deficiencies, so he's not even going to try, with her. Not an asset.

Coulson is what might politely be termed a teacher's pet. Or Director's pet, in this case. He's completely, slavishly dedicated to both Fury and SHIELD as a whole. He's all too willing to ignore SHIELD's shadier habits in the name of the greater good, and there'll be no pulling him from that path. No use trying there, either. Not an asset.

Skye…She's a variable. Unknown and unexpected. It's easy enough to see through her façade and realize what makes her tick: she wants to belong. She's desperate to have a place to call her own, but doesn't want to admit it to herself. She's been hurt before, and she's embarrassed by her inability to just move on from it and be happy being alone. She's got useful skills, there's no arguing that, but hackers are a dime a dozen these days, and Coulson's already started to get to her. He could try, but…It's not really worth it. Not an asset.

FitzSimmons, though…

Two of the brightest minds SHIELD has ever seen, right here on this plane with him. Usually, SHIELD limits general access to its best and brightest, wary of recruitment attempts—both from other agencies and from private industry—and yet here's FitzSimmons, sleeping just across the cabin.

It's an opportunity.

Fitz is undeniably brilliant. He also has the typical genius mindset regarding specialists: namely, that Grant's physical prowess means that he's intellectually lacking. Grant's attempts to protect him are met with impatience and annoyance, not gratitude—and certainly not respect. Fitz could be an asset, but direct interaction is useless.

Simmons, on the other hand. Well. Simmons is also brilliant, if in an entirely different way. Her specialty is biochemistry—something that will be of direct use both in saving John's life and in the Centipede project as a whole. She's also softer than Fitz, friendlier and more able to see the value in others, whether those others are fellow geniuses or high school drop-outs. She's also properly appreciative of Grant's efforts to save her life, fussing over his resulting injuries and apologizing for the trouble. She's a definite asset, _and_ she's his way in.

If he gets Simmons, he can get to Fitz through her. The character he's playing isn't the type to care whether people like him—or rather, he's the type to secretly care, but hide it—so trying to become friendly with Fitz isn't something he can do straightforwardly.

With Simmons, though. If he were to say, begin a relationship with Simmons, it would be not only in character but _expected_ for him to make nice with Fitz. Two birds with one stone. Actually, _three_ birds with one stone, because a relationship with Simmons would give him the excuse to hang around the lab, which would give him the opportunity to monitor her progress studying the Centipede serum.

Yeah, a relationship is his best bet. Simmons' loyalty to him as her boyfriend (although, she seems more the type to use a word like _paramour_) would supersede her loyalty to Coulson as her commanding officer, and he needs to have that loyalty before he can begin working on turning her.

The turning process itself, well. Simmons wants to save lives and help people. If she knew even a fraction of the secrets SHIELD's hiding, she'd be first in line to help tear it down. Of course, there's a big difference between abandoning SHIELD and joining up with Centipede (screw HYDRA, he knows where his loyalties lie), but…one step at a time.

The first step, of course, is beginning the relationship. Physically, it won't be difficult—she's certainly pretty enough, and he knows she finds him attractive. She's a complete professional, but he's trained to notice the smallest details, and he _saw_ the way her breath caught when he took off his shirt so she could tend to the bullet graze he got in Peru.

Unfortunately, the professionalism will probably work against him. He's going to need to convince her that he's worth breaking the fraternization regs and jeopardizing the team's stability. And, of course, he needs to do it in such a way that she doesn't realize he's convincing her, in order to make her think that she needs to convince _him_. After all, the character he's playing is socially awkward and emotionally closed off. He's not going to jump right in to a relationship with anyone, let alone someone he's supposed to protect.

It won't be easy. This is going to be the very definition of a long con. But it won't be a hardship, either. He thinks he could have a lot of fun with Simmons.

In fact, he knows he will.


	8. Single Parents AU

A/N: jemmasmmnss said: "can you do a parents meeting when they take their kids to class au? Thank you!"

* * *

Grant Ward never planned on being a father. There's no real reason for that. It's not that he has—or had—anything against kids, and it's not that his terrible childhood scared him off the idea, he just…never really thought about it.

If he had, though, he probably would've expected to go about it in the usual order: meet a woman, fall in love, get married, and then, eventually, have kids. He would _not_ have expected to become a parent by having his deadbeat, alcoholic, abusive asshole of an older brother's infant daughter dropped on him by Child Services after said older brother got himself killed in a bar fight.

However, that's exactly what happened.

Five years later, he's more than accepted it. He's actually grateful for it. He may not have expected McKenna, but she's the best part of his life. She might be Maynard's daughter by blood, but she's Grant's daughter in every way that matters, and he wouldn't trade her for anything.

He wants McKenna to have the best possible childhood. He wants her to grow up happy, healthy, and in full knowledge of just how much she's loved—everything he never had. He also wants her to have as many advantages as he can give her, which means the best possible schools and dance teachers and whatever else.

As such, McKenna is a student at Lee Academy, the most exclusive (and most expensive) private school in the city. His bank account does _not_ thank him, but McKenna loves it there, and it's the kind of school that can give her a leg up during the college admissions process. Of course, that's a ways away, yet, but it's never too early to start planning ahead.

Anyway, as much as McKenna loves the place, and as many advantages as it gives her, there are some drawbacks to her attendance at Lee Academy. Namely, the drop-off procedure. Most schools allow parents to just pull into the driveway and let their kids out at the front door, or so he's led to believe. At Lee, however, he has to park, go in, and drop McKenna off in her classroom.

It's not that he minds having a few extra minutes with her, and he does appreciate that it's for the students' safety, but it's a little inconvenient. Still, in the grand scheme of things, it's really not that big a deal, so every morning, he parks his car and walks McKenna into the building. McKenna, of course, thinks it's the best thing ever, and the mornings are always full of chatter about what she's looking forward to doing that day.

Today, as has been the case for the last week and a half, the topic of discussion is Lydia, McKenna's best friend. Lydia transferred in from somewhere ("really far away" is all McKenna has been able to remember) two weeks ago, and she's McKenna's new favorite person.

Grant kind of misses the days when _he_ was McKenna's favorite person, but he's glad she's making friends.

"Lydia!"

Speak of the devil. They've barely set foot inside the building when McKenna yells out her friend's name, and the little blonde girl a ways down the hall turns around and beams.

"Kenny!" she shouts back, breaking away from the woman walking with her to run back and join Grant and McKenna.

The woman, presumably Lydia's mother, gives chase immediately, but she's balancing a purse, a folder, a lunchbox, and what must be Lydia's backpack, so she doesn't manage to catch her in time.

The two girls meet in a hug and immediately begin the kind of rapid-paced babble that only young children can manage, speaking over each other yet still seeming to understand every word.

You'd think it'd been weeks since they saw each other, not just a day.

It's still a while before class starts; there's no harm in letting them talk for a bit. So instead of ushering McKenna on to class, he leaves them to it and goes to help Lydia's mother, who looks to be about three seconds from dropping everything she's carrying.

"Here," he says. "Let me help you with that."

He takes the folder and the lunchbox, leaving Lydia's mother free to swing the purse and the backpack over her shoulder.

"Thank you," she says, taking back the folder and lunchbox. "That's very kind of you."

Grant hides his surprise; he was _not_ expecting an English accent. Suddenly McKenna's description of Lydia as coming from "really far away" makes a little more sense—he was thinking California, not England.

"No problem," he assures her, brushing off his surprise. "You must be Lydia's mom."

"Jemma Simmons," she says. "And I presume that you're McKenna's father?"

"Grant Ward," he confirms, shaking her hand. "Nice to meet you."

"And you as well," Jemma says, smiling at him. It's quite a smile, and he finds himself returning it reflexively, even though he's not generally a smiley kind of guy. "Actually, I've been wanting to speak with you, if you have a moment?"

He glances at McKenna; she and Lydia are still happily chattering away. They're fine for the moment.

"Yeah, sure," he says. "What about?"

"Well, as you may know, Lydia and I just moved here from London a few weeks ago," she says, adjusting her hold on the folder. "Her birthday is next week and she was _very_ upset about leaving her friends behind, so I wanted to do something special for her, to make up for it. She's requested a sleep-over with McKenna. I didn't want to approve it without talking to you first, so…"

Grant hesitates, looking back to the girls. Lydia's uniform is clean and neatly pressed, obviously well taken care of. She herself is obviously happy, vivacious, bearing no obvious signs of abuse or neglect. There's no reason to assume that Jemma is anything other than a loving, dedicated parent.

Still, he's not entrusting McKenna's safety to just anyone. He usually spends a while getting to know her friends' parents before he lets her go over to their houses for an afternoon, to say nothing of an overnight visit.

"I understand if you're not comfortable with that," Jemma continues, apparently reading his hesitation. "After all, we've only just met."

The constant flood of parents and kids that has been happening around them is starting to slow to a trickle, and Grant checks his watch.

"Tell you what," he says. "How about we get the girls to class, and then, if you've got nowhere else to be, we could check out that diner that just opened on Lexington?"

It'll serve two purposes: one, it's a chance to get to know Jemma a little better before he decides whether or not to allow McKenna to spend the night at her place, and two, it gives him company for breakfast.

It's a little pathetic of him, but even now, six months into McKenna's first year of school, he's having trouble adjusting to eating breakfast and lunch by himself. It would be nice to have some company.

Especially such attractive company, he amends as Jemma smiles at him again.

"I'd like that," she says. Then she turns to look at the girls. "Lydia."

Lydia ignores her, caught in what seems to be a very heated debate about the merits of chocolate chocolate chip over oatmeal chocolate chip cookies.

"_Lydia_," she repeats, a little more sharply.

Lydia sighs and looks over. "Yes, Mummy?" she asks in a long-suffering tone.

"It's time for class," Jemma says. "And watch that tone of yours."

"Yes, Mummy," Lydia says. "Sorry, Mummy."

"That's all right, darling," Jemma says. "Just save it for your Auntie Skye."

Lydia giggles and skips over to take Jemma's outstretched hand.

"You too, McKenna," Grant adds, turning his attention to his own daughter. "We don't wanna be late."

"Because pun-tu-al is polite," McKenna agrees, quoting their neighbor across the hall, who sometimes watches her when Grant's working late.

"That's right," he says. "But it's _punctual_, not puntual. Can you try again?"

"Punc-tu-al," McKenna sounds out carefully. "Is that right?"

"Perfect! Good job," he congratulates her, holding out his hand for a high five.

She slaps it, beaming, and then grabs on and starts tugging him down the hall after Jemma and Lydia.

"Come on, Daddy," she urges. "We have to be _punctual_."

He has a feeling he's going to be hearing that word a lot from now on, but that's okay. He's just glad she's past her 'no' phase. That was a horrible four months.

The diner isn't that far, so once they drop the girls off, he and Jemma decide to walk there. On the way, he learns that she's a biochemist, working on something called bioinformatics at a private research facility downtown. It all goes pretty far over his head, but what he does understand impresses him.

He also learns that Jemma is a single mother. Apparently, she decided that she wanted a child and saw no reason to wait until she found a man she was interested in marrying, so she went to a clinic for artificial insemination.

There's a bit of a challenge in her tone when she shares that, as though she's just daring him to judge her for it, but honestly, he doesn't. It's actually kind of impressive, that she just…decided she wanted a kid and went for it. He likes that, the straightforward, decisive attitude—likes what it says about her.

"What about you?" Jemma asks as they enter the diner. "I notice you're not wearing a wedding ring. Is McKenna's mother…?"

"Dead," he says, simply.

Jemma looks immediately contrite. "Oh! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to bring up any bad memories."

"No, it's all right," he tells her as they sit at a table near the window. "I never met her."

She opens her mouth, pauses, then closes it, obviously puzzling over this. He has to admit, her expression is pretty funny, but he doesn't leave her in suspense.

"Biologically, McKenna is my brother's daughter," he explains. "He died when she was five months old, and as his closest living relative, I got custody. Her mother was already gone—suicide, I think."

"That's terrible," Jemma says, covering her mouth briefly. "I'm sorry to hear that. It must have been very difficult."

He's not about to get into just how horrible a human being Maynard was with a stranger, no matter how pretty she is, so he changes the subject.

"So, what made you leave London?"

By the time they finish breakfast, Grant's fairly confident that there's no harm in letting McKenna spend the night at Jemma's house. He's also, to his slight embarrassment, nursing a crush the likes of which he hasn't experienced since high school. In his defense, Jemma is gorgeous, intelligent, friendly, and kind of hilarious. He'd like to see _anyone_ spend an hour with her and not get at least a little crush.

"So, I'll ring you with the details of Lydia's party," Jemma checks as they return to the Lee Academy parking lot.

"Right," he says. "And maybe in a few weeks, I can return the favor."

"Of calling me?" she teases.

"Of having Lydia spend the night," he corrects, smiling. "Although, now that you mention it…"

"Yes?"

High school was also the last time he hung around mooning over a girl instead of making a move.

"_Would_ it be okay if I called you sometime?" he asks. "We could, maybe, do this again? Preferably when we don't have to worry about getting to work on time."

Jemma gives him a long, thoughtful look, and he's just starting to second-guess himself when she gives him another one of her brilliant smiles.

"I'd like that," she says.

"Yeah?" he asks, relieved.

"Yes," she confirms, still smiling. "You have my number?"

"I do."

"Then I'll…look forward to hearing from you," she says.

He waits until she drives away, then gets in his car, wincing as he checks the time. Breakfast has made him an hour late for work, but it was so, so worth it.


	9. Five Times Ward and Simmons Have Sex

A/N: anonymous said: "Biospecialist (canon): five times they had sex + one time they didn't. If you're still accepting prompts."

**Fair warning**: As requested, this is canon-with all that that implies. Also, this isn't precisely smut, but it's as close as I'll ever get to writing it. Reader discretion is advised.

* * *

1\. The first time is convenience.

They're both hopped up on adrenaline, hearts racing and blood rushing from the day's events, and there's no way they'll get through the necessary debriefs in this condition. Grant has a lot more experience with this kind of thing than Simmons does, knows what works and what doesn't, and for him, when it comes to using up excess adrenaline, nothing is better than sex.

So when they're fished out of the ocean and brought to the SHIELD base in Morocco to await pick-up by the rest of the team, he graciously accepts the base commander's offer of a shower and tugs Simmons in after him. She follows willingly, still surprised to be alive and all too happy to celebrate it.

It's quick and hard and maybe a little rougher than he would normally be with a woman like Simmons, but it's exactly what they both need, after what just happened. It's also surprisingly not awkward; he would've expected Simmons to be the type to stammer and blush and avoid eye contact, after, but instead she just asks him to pass the soap, please, she doesn't want to even think of the sort of bacteria that can be found in the Atlantic Ocean.

(Technically this is the second, third, and fourth time, too, but…who's counting?)

x

2\. The second time is desperation.

Coulson is missing, Peterson's dead, Grant got _shot_, and there's nothing they can do about any of these things; they're under orders from HQ not to take any further action until the Level Eight they're sending to take over the op arrives. So after she's stitched his shoulder and before the local anesthetic (all he would accept) wears off, they stumble their way into one of the storage closets and take out their emotions on one another.

It's better, this time—they know more about one another, have a better idea of each other's likes, and between that and the adrenaline the first round is almost embarrassingly quick. The second round is longer, slower, a little less frenzy and a little more grief.

After, it's still not awkward. They get dressed hurriedly, because they can hear Fitz down the hall, calling for Simmons, but he doesn't sense any regret from her. She helps him get a clean shirt on—because holding her against the wall like that right after getting his shoulder stitched was a pretty stupid thing to do, albeit entirely worth it—and smiles when she dismisses his thanks. Her smile is a little shaky, but he's pretty sure that's nothing to do with what just happened and everything to do with the events on the bridge.

He thinks of offering comfort, but, well. It's never been his strong suit.

x

3\. The third time is relief.

Coulson's been found, alive if not well, and Centipede didn't get what they wanted out of him. Grant, personally, isn't too happy about that last bit, but he's supposed to be, and it's easy enough to fake.

There are about a hundred rounds of debriefing to go through, so the Bus has been grounded at the nearest SHIELD base for the foreseeable future. They're offered temporary quarters on base, and Grant accepts at once, even as most of the team opts to stay on the Bus. After a moment, Simmons accepts as well, waving off Fitz's concern and following the agent assigned to show them to the barracks out of the hangar.

Once the agent leaves them, they stand in the hall for a long moment, just staring at each other. Then Grant tips his head at his door and Simmons nods, smiling a little. They're kissing before he even finishes punching in the code to unlock the door, and they stumble into the room, laughing as they nearly fall over an inconveniently placed floor lamp.

They're giddy with relief, over the success of the rescue op, the unbelievable fact that their half-assed plan actually _worked_, and showing up Victoria Hand in front of basically all of their superiors (Simmons is just as capable of holding a grudge as he is, it turns out). This time, it's not hard, not desperate. It's fun—laughter and playful touches, and maybe it's a little soon for torture jokes, but she torments him in the absolute _best_ kind of ways until he agrees to call her Jemma. (He only holds out so long so that she won't stop.)

They're also a little giddy with _exhaustion_, since they've been awake for more than two days straight, now, and after round three, she falls asleep next to him instead of leaving. Strangely enough, he doesn't even mind.

In the morning, it's still not awkward. She checks his stitches and his broken hand, scolds him for not replacing the bandage on his wound after the fight in the desert, and then departs with a reminder not to get his stitches wet when he showers.

x

4\. The fourth time is grief.

Jemma is nowhere to be found when he returns to the Bus after taking Skye back to the Wall of Valor. On a hunch, he heads back into the storage area, where he finds her in the very back of Avionics, hiding behind a large crate. She's not crying, as he half expects her to be, just sitting there against the wall, staring blankly ahead with her hands folded neatly in her lap.

She scrambles to her feet as soon as she sees him, and he's barely opened his mouth to ask if she's okay when she's on him. She kisses him roughly, with an edge of desperation, and he goes with it, meets her with equal force, and doesn't say anything about the way her hands shake as she unbuttons his shirt.

It's intense, almost _vicious_, and Jemma takes deep, shuddering breaths that tease the edge of sobbing. When she rakes her nails against his skin, he tightens his hold on her in return, digs his fingers into her skin hard enough to bruise, and she shows her approval by biting marks into his shoulder.

After, it's still not awkward. They get dressed in silence, but before he can leave, she steps forward and hugs him. That's not really something they've done a lot of, so he's briefly taken aback, but he returns the embrace after a moment. Jemma just stands there with her arms wrapped around his middle, and after a minute he realizes that her ear is pressed to his chest, right over his heart, and her fingers are tapping the rhythm of his heartbeat against his back.

A cadet died and she couldn't save him. He doesn't mind helping her grieve.

x

5\. The fifth time is just because.

Skye's on the mend, thanks to the GH-325. She's not back to active duty yet, much to her dismay, but she's no longer at the point where Jemma refuses to leave her side for more than three minutes. Of course, the fact that she's not back to active duty means that the _team_ isn't back to active duty, and at this point, they're all just as bored as she is.

They've been using the downtime to catch up on paperwork—old AARs and expense reports, mostly—but Coulson gives them the day off, saying they need to take a break before they're driven to mutiny. Fitz is sticking with Skye for the day—they've got an entire series on DVD, and Fitz claims he's not leaving until they've watched the whole thing—so it's easy enough for Grant to lure Jemma off the Bus.

The Bus is parked just outside of a small town, and they spend a few hours wandering around it. They get brunch at a diner with weird, abstract décor but really great food, then spend another few hours wandering. Eventually, on the far side of town from the Bus, they come across a Motel Six, and Jemma tilts her head at it.

"What do you say, Agent Ward?" she asks, looking up at him through her eyelashes. "Are you willing to be a cheap date?"

Grant smiles, slow and a little wicked, and enjoys the flush it brings to her face. "I am if you are, Agent Simmons."

"I am," she confirms, and they enter the motel hand in hand.

This time it's a little different—a little of everything. The first round is hard, the second gentle, the third slow, the fourth interrupted halfway through because Jemma's stomach growls loud enough to distract them. After grabbing a lunch made of snacks from the vending machine down the hall, they get right back to it, and the fifth round is long, full of teasing exploration.

They spend all afternoon and evening in the room, enjoying and exploring each other, and in the end, they only leave because Skye texts them asking if they've been abducted by aliens ("and if so, don't forget to bring me a souvenir").

They maintain a comfortable silence as they walk back to the Bus, and by now, it doesn't surprise him at all.

x

+1 It's the first time she's seen him since he revealed his true loyalties.

He steps back from the doorway and extends an arm, inviting them to leave the shed. "After you."

It's the last thing she wants, but there's nowhere to run. She steels herself and lets go of the window ledge she's been desperately holding on to, stepping up behind Fitz. He doesn't move.

"I can make it a threat," Ward says lightly, his other hand pulling his jacket aside to show them the gun tucked into his waistband. It's not an ICER.

Fitz swallows loudly, then reaches back for her hand. She laces their fingers together, squeezing gently, and lets him lead the way out of the shed.

Ward remains standing in the doorway, and she can't help the way her grip on Fitz's hand tightens when she has to walk past him. She's afraid…she doesn't know what she's afraid of. That he might touch her? That he might say something?

He doesn't, though. He waits in silence until they've left the shed, then drops his arm and whistles loudly. Two SUVs drive around from the other side of the building, screeching to a stop in front of them, and four more of Garrett's men get out.

Ward walks past Jemma and Fitz to join his fellow HYDRA agents.

"Put them in separate vehicles," he says.

"No," Fitz objects immediately. Jemma would object, too, but she's not sure she's capable of speech at the moment. "I'm not letting you—"

"It's really not up to you," Ward interrupts, as one of the nameless HYDRA agents moves forward, gun at the ready. "But no one's going to get hurt…yet." Jemma can't hold back a shudder at the way he smiles when he says the last word, and Ward's eyes snap to her. "It's just strategic. I know neither one of you will try to escape if you can't bring the other with you."

It's the truth, of course. Jemma would never leave Fitz behind, just as he would never leave her. No matter how much she wishes he would.

The HYDRA agent pulls Fitz away, and he struggles for a moment, but goes still when the man puts his gun to his head. She lets go of his hand reluctantly, sharing a long look with him as he's dragged to one of the SUVs. She'd like to say something, tell him to be strong or be careful or remind him that she loves him, but she can't even open her mouth. She's just frozen in place, watching him get dragged away.

The HYDRA agent shoves Fitz into one of the SUVs, then gets in after him, and two of the others climb into the front. Then the SUV drives away, heading towards the Bus.

Leaving her with the last agent…and Ward.

She can't bear to look at him, so she keeps her eyes on the retreating SUV. She's aware of movement, hears the sound of a car door closing, and hopes with all of her might that Ward is about to drive away and leave her alone with this nameless HYDRA agent. Unfortunately, she's disappointed, as an all too familiar hand drops to her shoulder.

She can't contain her flinch, and Ward chuckles lowly.

"Do you think I'm gonna hurt you, Jemma?" he asks quietly.

_Yes_, she'd like to say. Of course he's going to hurt her. He killed Eric, and kidnapped Skye, and tried to kill Skye and Coulson when Coulson rescued her. He's _HYDRA_, for goodness' sake. Hurting people is all he does.

She can't speak, though. There's a lump in her throat the size of their history, held in place by the stolen moments they had together—Morocco, California, some nameless small town somewhere in America. They were lies, she knows that now. All of it was a lie. At the time, she thought she was doing well by not reading anything more than friendship and fun in it; just a release of tension, a way to cope with the various emotions field work brings about.

Now, she knows that even _that_ was reading too much. It was nothing but a con, and the disgust and shame and horror she feels at the knowledge of what the hands that brought her pleasure have wrought is enough to keep her silent.

When she doesn't answer him, he slides his hand down from her shoulder and wraps it firmly around her upper arm, just above her elbow. It's not painfully tight, but it's close, and she knows there's no way she can break his hold. And even if she could, what then? Even if she were physically capable of disabling him, which she's really not, Fitz is already on his way to the Bus and, as Ward pointed out, she won't leave without him.

So she lets Ward lead her to the SUV, even though she wants nothing more than to run away.


	10. Jemma Simmons, memories

A/N: anonymous said: "Jemma Simmons, memories. Pretty please? In your au or not, up to you."

* * *

Jemma's always thought it an odd choice, the use of sepia for flashbacks in movies and television. It's for distinction purposes, she knows, to clearly differentiate between present and past, but why sepia? Most of _her_ memories are bright, washed out by the glare of fluorescent lights—in laboratories, in lecture halls, in doctors' offices.

Of the last, she sees plenty, especially when she's very young. The first is when she's six years old, and she sits in the waiting room of a consultant's office and listens to words like 'prodigy' and 'testing' float out through the open door.

She sees a lot of testing, too. Her early years are filled with it, with being sat down and told to take her time, do her best, no one will be angry if she can't finish. She always does finish, though, and that leads to the next part of the process, strange grown-ups asking kindly if her parents helped her study—"It's all right if they did, love, you won't be in trouble"—and giving her disappointed looks when she says no.

They never believe her, that she hasn't had help. Not at first. They always sit down with her and ask to be led through the steps of how she found her answers.

"How do you know this is the answer?" quickly becomes her least favourite question. It's not that she minds being asked, just that they never like her response.

More than once she's driven to tears by the frustration, the futility of trying to make them understand—facts are facts are facts, and this is one of them. There's no _finding_ the answer, just _knowing_ it, and she's unable, her vocabulary and her education lacking, to say anything other than, "It just _is_."

The tests themselves she doesn't mind. At first, they're simple and boring, but she begins to enjoy them as they become harder—more challenging, the doctors say, and maybe that's why she likes them, because she's never been _challenged_ before. It's fun.

The results are fun, too, once everyone accepts that no, she isn't cheating and yes, she really is that smart. She's moved forward several years, put in classes where she's actually challenged, where she has to _work_ for the answers she wants, where there isn't a guarantee that she'll make perfect scores, and she loves every second of it.

She doesn't love the looks she gets. From _everyone_—her mother, bewildered but encouraging; her father, proud but worried; her gran, who thinks she's _strange_; her classmates, so much older than her, unimpressed by the child in their midst—no matter to whom she's speaking, she receives the same blank stare every time.

No one can follow her thought process when she speaks about her interests. And, more importantly, no one _wants_ to. She learns to recognise the signs, the impatient nods and insincere smiles, which mean her conversational partner is just waiting for her to pause for breath so they can change the subject.

She thinks things will be different when she leaves school, but they aren't. Even at university, she sees the same signs, receives the same blank stares.

No one wants to hear about the experiments she wants to run, or about the articles she reads in _Chemical Society Reviews_, and most definitely not about her doctoral dissertation. Even her classmates are uninterested, and since they are all pursuing the same course of study, she has to assume that it's _her_ they object to, not the topic of conversation.

She keeps trying, though. The sting of rejection, the embarrassment that curls in her chest when she realises she's only being _tolerated_, is still not as bad as the loneliness that is her constant companion. So she persists, trying again and again, hoping that this year, in _this_ class, things will be different.

They aren't. For all of her time at Cambridge, things remain the same.

Things _are_, however, different at the Academy. Not at first—at first, she's isolated, being (as usual) so much younger than her peers. Then she meets Fitz, just as young, just as brilliant as she, and just as eager to have someone to talk to. In Fitz, she finds what she's always wanted: not just a partner, but a _friend_. Her other half, really, and after so many years of knowing she was only being tolerated, it's more than a relief to find someone who so easily, excuse the pun, _fits_ with her.

They fall easily into sync, finishing each other's thoughts and sentences, working together on experiments and inventions, pushing one another farther and harder to succeed, and it's perfect. People begin to call them FitzSimmons, and it's so wonderful, so _amazing_ to be understood so well by someone, that she doesn't even mind being treated as a single entity.

Fitz remains the closest and dearest of her friends, but once she has him, she begins to make more. It's easier now, because she doesn't _care_ as much. If it works out, she has a new friend, and that's lovely. If it _doesn't_, well, what of it? She still has Fitz.

All of her memories of Fitz—meeting, befriending, and years upon years of working together—are illuminated, brightened by fluorescent lights and computer screens. All except one.

What happened in the pod, underneath the ocean…it's not brightly lit. It's not sepia, either. She doesn't remember all of it—she did have a moderately severe head injury, after all—but what she does remember is tinted grey and blue.

Blue from the light coming through the window, of course. Grey…

It's emotion, of course, just her despair and worry for Fitz affecting her memory. He wasn't _really_ fading as they sat there and spoke about death and thermodynamics. He remained in full colour the entire time. He was never drained of it, becoming a greyscale character in a colour world.

It's just emotion, that's all.

Just like it's emotion that's affecting her now. He's not _really_ smaller. It's the effect of the hospital bed, of the various equipment monitoring his vitals and brainwaves, of the peaceful, relaxed look on his face. It's just her own despair and worry for him weighing her down, as it has for weeks now.

The others are worried about her, she knows.

Trip tries to coax her into eating, but she has no appetite at all. Even _looking_ at food makes her feel ill. She eats anyway, at least a little, because Agent Coulson threatens to have her fed intravenously, and they can't waste medical supplies. Fitz needs them.

It's been _weeks_, and there's no change.

She can't bear to leave his room, afraid of what might happen as soon as she walks away. Skye keeps trying to drag her off to bed, begging her to sleep—"Just for a few hours, Simmons, I'll stay with him the whole time, I swear"—but she won't leave his side. She _can't_.

She compromises by attempting to nap in the chair next to Fitz's bed, but she can't sleep for nightmares.

Sometimes she dreams of the day she almost died from the Chitauri virus, when she threw herself from the Bus while Fitz watched and screamed. It was a cruel thing to do. She knew it then, of course she did—it's why she hit him with the fire extinguisher, so that he wouldn't have to watch her die. She failed on that score; by the time she jumped, she was weak, lacking the physical strength to hit Fitz with the force required to keep him unconscious for more than a few seconds.

She knew, when she turned around and saw him standing there, struggling with the door to the lab, that what she was doing to him was cruel. Now, having been forced to watch as he sacrificed himself to save her, she knows it was more than that. Not just cruel—it's so much worse, so much more severe. She doesn't even have words for it.

Those are terrible dreams, but they're not the only ones.

Sometimes she dreams of waiting. In those dreams, she's back at the Academy, in the study room she and Fitz claimed for themselves in their first term. She has a stack of books in front of her, ready to be read, but she doesn't open any of them, because Fitz isn't there yet. Eventually, she gets impatient and tries to read one without him, but the words turn to illegible scribbles in front of her eyes, and she wakes in tears.

Sometimes she dreams of being dropped from the Bus, over and over again, a man who saved their lives more than once standing and watching as they're inexorably dragged beneath the ocean waves.

She dreams of Ward often, actually. Not so much in the first few days, but once word reaches them that he's escaped military custody and disappeared, he becomes a regular feature of her nightmares.

She dreams of everything he did—not just to her, but to everyone. To Skye, who (for all of her nagging) doesn't appear to be sleeping any more than Jemma is. To Coulson, who watches the agents at the Playground with wary, calculating eyes. To May, who often lingers in the hall, standing guard over Jemma and Fitz despite the security of the base.

She dreams of the people he killed—Eric Koenig, Victoria Hand, Thomas Nash, and countless others whose names and faces she will never know. She dreams of Norway, of his kind eyes as he told her that her fear would take over if she dwelt on it.

And, of course, she dreams of that moment—the way his eyes went cold as he said, "Have it your way," and pressed the button that doomed them.

Doomed _Fitz_. _Jemma_ is fine. Her concussion is gone, now, her abrasions mostly healed. Fitz is still comatose.

It's been _weeks_.

Jemma has never considered herself to be a particularly courageous person. However, she has also never considered herself a coward. Yet these days she seems to consist of nothing _but_ fear.

Fear of heights—not a problem, in the underground base. Fear of enclosed spaces—_definitely_ a problem, in the underground base. Fear of having her head underwater—she's mastered the art of the seven minute shower. She has a whole laundry list of them, fears that stop her heart and send her skin crawling, but there are ways to deal with them. She knows that with time, and with therapy, she can conquer her various fears. She's done it before, and she'll do it again.

Except one. The worst one, naturally.

Because what she fears most of all, above heights and closets and drowning, is that Fitz will remain nothing more than a memory. She fears, with a desperation that is only increasing as the days pass, that he will never wake up. She fears the day that one of the Playground's doctors will sit her down and say she needs to consider whether to remove Fitz from life support.

If Fitz dies, it will be unarguably her fault. He sacrificed himself to save her. And more than that, the only reason he was in a position to sacrifice himself—the only reason she _needed_ saving—was because of _her_ insistence upon joining a field team.

"You were wrong, Fitz," she says quietly to her comatose partner. "_This_ is the moment I regret."


	11. ALS Ice Bucket Challenge

A/N: anonymous said: "I was wondering if you were taking anymore prompt request for Biospecialist. If you are, would you mind writing a little piece where the team has been requested to do the Ice Bucket Challenge for ALS, please?"

* * *

"AC, we've been _challenged_."

"Regardless," Coulson says, in a tone that suggests this argument has been going on for a while. "The answer is no, Skye."

Grant turns to leave—breakfast can wait, he doesn't want to get drawn into this—but he's too slow, and Skye spots him.

"Ward!" she calls. "Back me up here."

Knowing from experience that ignoring her will just result in her chasing him around the Bus until he gives in and listens, he turns back around with a sigh.

"Back you up on what?" he asks, crossing his arms. "If this is about the twitter thing again—"

"'Shit SHIELD Says' is a great idea and you _know_ it," Skye insists. "But no, this is not about that. This is about _honor_, Ward. This is about our team's good name. This is about—"

"This is about the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge," Simmons interrupts. She's leaning back against the counter next to the sink, cradling a mug and looking very amused. "Transport Team Seven challenged us."

Grant isn't the kind of guy who keeps up with Internet trends—unless he's on assignment and the cover requires it, of course—but he's familiar with the Ice Bucket Challenge. Mostly because Skye loves it, and keeps showing the various videos to anyone who stands still long enough.

"Right," he says. "Good to know. Do you mind getting out of my way, Skye? You're blocking the fridge."

"No, I will _not_ get out of your way," Skye says, pointing at him. "Not until you tell AC that we _have_ to accept the challenge. Our reputation is on the line, here!"

Grant's pretty sure this has less to do with reputation and more to do with the chance to pour ice water on all of her teammates.

"As I've said, Skye," Coulson sighs. "While I understand the appeal—"

"It's for a good cause, AC!" Skye says. "We're the good guys, we need to support good causes."

"It is for a good cause," Coulson agrees. "Which is why I've already made a donation. But we're not accepting the challenge."

Skye groans. "But _why_? C'mon, it's just a little ice water."

"Skye, the ice water isn't the problem," Simmons says, finally taking pity on her. "Agent Coulson's survival is classified Level Seven; he can't appear on an agency-wide video."

Skye blinks, considering this. Then she rolls her eyes.

"Okay, fine, so AC's out," she says. "There's no reason the _rest_ of us can't."

Coulson pauses with his cup of coffee halfway to his mouth.

"No," he says in a thoughtful tone. "There isn't, is there?"

Grant trades a resigned look with Simmons. If Skye's got Coulson on her side, there's no way they're getting out of this.

x

Sure enough, two hours later the whole team, minus Coulson, is gathered in the cargo bay, along with five tubs of ice water. Lola and the SUV are parked at the bottom of the ramp, safely away from any possible splash, and there's a tarp laid out where they usually sit—because this is a _very expensive_ mobile command station, and no one wants to have to explain water damage to Fury.

There's a camera ready to go, set up on a tripod and fully charged. Everything's ready for the team to get doused.

Except for a small matter of logistics.

Grant, by virtue of being the tallest member of the team, has been elected to be the person pouring ice water on everyone. He's absolutely okay with this—although he's pretty sure May's gonna make him pay for it the next time they spar, and that's a little concerning—but Simmons points out a small hole in the logic.

"And who will be pouring the water on Agent Ward?" she asks.

"Yeah," Fitz agrees. "None of us are tall enough to reach above his head."

Grant, well aware that this is a sensitive topic for a number of his teammates, keeps his face carefully blank.

"Oh, man," Skye says. "You're right." She looks around the cargo bay. "We could stand on the stairs and do it, but we'd have to move the tarp."

"Absolutely not," Fitz says. "You'd be too close—"

"Far too close to the lab," Simmons agrees. "We have very—"

"Our equipment is _incredibly_ delicate," Fitz continues over her. "We can't risk—"

"We just can't risk it, I'm sorry," Simmons says.

"O-_kay_," Skye says loudly. "Not near the lab, I got it. How do we do it, then?"

Grant doesn't particularly _want_ to be doused in ice water, but he also doesn't want to be here all day, so he points out the obvious solution.

"I'll just pour it on myself," he says.

"No way," Skye says. "Not happening."

"…Why not?" he asks, honestly confused.

"It's against the Rules," she says, like it's obvious. Somehow, 'rules' is audibly capitalized.

"Are there rules?" Simmons wonders. "I'd like to see a copy of them, in that case."

"They're not _written_ rules," Skye says. "They're just—there are rules, okay, and we have to follow them, and that means someone else has to pour the water on Ward."

May sighs a little, like she's wondering what on earth she ever did to deserve being saddled with a team of such idiots, and then walks into the lab. She comes back carrying a black case, which she drops onto the tarp with a heavy _thunk_.

"Stand on this," she says flatly.

There's a moment of embarrassed silence, and then Skye claps her hands.

"Okay!" she says cheerfully. "Let's get it started, then! Who's first?"

"You are," Fitz says definitively. "Yeah."

"What?" she asks. "Why am _I_ first?"

"You're the one who's so excited about it," Grant points out. "It's only fair."

Skye suddenly looks a lot less enthusiastic about the whole thing, but she sighs and nods, crossing to stand on the center of the tarp.

"Okay," she says. "Roll camera."

Simmons walks to the camera and turns it on. "Camera rolling!"

"Hello, SHIELD," Skye says brightly, smiling at the camera. "I'm Skye, from SHIELD team 616. Agent Mack and his transport team challenged us to the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge, and we're here to deliver."

Grant picks up the nearest tub. He's _absolutely_ going to enjoy this.

Skye takes a deep breath. "We nominate Director Fury, Deputy Commander Hill, and Agent Victoria Hand. You have 24 hours to respond, or you're horrible people."

That's…impressively gutsy.

"We're all going to get fired," Fitz mutters. Simmons nods in agreement, looking slightly ill.

May sighs again.

Grant shakes off his shock, readjusts his grip on the tub of ice water, and carries it on to the tarp. He doesn't hesitate, pouring it directly on Skye's head, and takes more than a little pleasure in the way she shrieks.

Nothing wrong with a little schadenfreude when he's gonna go through the same thing soon enough, right?

Once the tub is empty, he walks away from the spluttering Skye and drops it off to the side.

"Okay," Skye says, her voice pitched a little higher than usual. "That was…really cold. Agent May, you're up."

She dashes off the tarp, over to the stack of towels waiting in one of the jump seats, and May takes her place. Grant sighs, resigns himself to the payback he will inevitably receive for this (although he's willing to bet Skye won't be safe, either) and carries another tub over.

May, unsurprisingly, takes being soaked in ice water stoically. She just stands there, waits until he's done, and then walks over to the towels. Skye looks disappointed, but the rest of them were pretty much expecting that, so no one comments.

Grant drops the empty tub next to the other one, then looks at the team's scientists.

"Ladies first," Fitz invites Simmons.

"Oh, no," Simmons says. "I couldn't possibly. After you, Fitz."

Fitz narrows his eyes, Simmons narrows hers, and then, simultaneously, they stick out their fists.

"Ro-sham-bo," Fitz chants.

He picks scissors, Simmons picks rock, and Fitz deflates.

"Fine," he mutters, and takes his place on the tarp.

Fitz is, if it's possible, even more fun to soak than Skye. He shrieks, too, at an even higher pitch, and then storms away, cursing. Or at least Grant _thinks_ he's cursing. He's sounding particularly Scottish, at the moment, and it's hard to make out individual words.

Biting down on the urge to laugh, Grant drops the empty tub with the others, then looks at Simmons.

"Here we go, then," she says, stepping on to the tarp.

Simmons shrieks a little and jumps when he pours the ice water on her, but it's a little less amusing coming from her. Actually, it's more attractive than anything else; her sensible button-down shirt is clinging a lot more than her clothes usually do, and combined with the deep breaths she's taking…

Maybe it's a good thing he's about to be bathed in ice water.

Simmons hurries over to grab a towel while he discards the empty tub. Then, figuring there's no point in delaying it, he picks up the case May brought from the lab and moves it closer to the area of the tarp the camera is aimed at.

"Yes!" Skye cheers. "Ward's turn! Dibs on soaking him."

"That's fine," he says. "Just remember who's in charge of your training."

She gives him a slightly wary look, obviously trying to determine whether being the one to pour water on him will earn her extra push-ups. It won't—he's a little more professional than that, to his sincere regret—but there's no reason to let her _know_ that.

She hesitates for a minute longer, then nods. "Yeah, no, it's worth it."

She picks up the last tub, staggering a little upon finding it heavier than she expects, and carries it over. She steps up onto the case, and Grant braces himself.

It's cold. No surprise there. He's had worse—cleaning his wounds in a creek in Russia during November, for instance—but it's still not fun, and he can't hold back a little grunt at the sudden shock of it.

Skye drops the tub right where she stands.

"That's it?" she demands. "Man, you and May are _no fun_."

"Yeah," he says. "And it keeps us up at night."

He walks over to the towels, stripping off his shirt as he goes, and ignores the insult Skye mutters to his back.

He blocks out Skye's closing comments to the camera as he dries himself quickly. He needs to get out of the rest of his wet clothes, but the rest of the team is still standing around, obviously waiting until _everyone_ is done before going upstairs to change. Solidarity—apparently that's something they do, now.

"And, that's a wrap," Skye announces. She walks over to the camera and turns it off, removing it from the tripod. "I'll get this uploaded to the server just as soon as I dry off, okay?"

"Good, so we're done?" Fitz asks. He looks a little like a drowned rat, his hair plastered to his forehead, and his expression can only be described as petulant.

May crosses the cargo bay and starts up the stairs.

"I think that's a yes," Simmons comments, amused.

"Yeah," Skye confirms. "We're done."

x

Ten minutes later, having dried off and changed, he steps out of his bunk and nearly runs right into Simmons.

"Oh, sorry," he says.

"It's all right," she says. "I suppose I should have been quicker with knocking."

He shrugs. "I should've watched where I was going. Did you need something?"

He takes a look around the cabin, but there's no one in sight. Coulson is probably still hiding in his office, trying to avoid Skye's notice for a while—because eventually it's going to occur to her that just because he can't be soaked on _camera_ doesn't mean he can't be soaked at all—and he can hear both showers running, so Fitz and Skye are occupied for the moment. Or May, possibly, but she doesn't tend towards long showers; she would've been out by now.

"I always thought that looked very unpleasant," Simmons says. "However, I underestimated just how much the cold would _linger_."

She does look cold, bundled up in a sweater with her hands tucked under her arms. He takes another look around the cabin, considering. Coulson won't be down anytime soon. Fitz and Skye are both inclined towards _really_ long showers. There's no telling where May is or whether she'll be on the cabin level anytime soon, but…she knows about them, anyway.

No reason not to.

So he gives Simmons a grin and tugs her into his bunk.

"Why don't I help you warm up?"


	12. Werewolf AU

A/N: anonymous said: "biospecialist werewolf au"

* * *

Jemma Simmons is beginning to reconsider her life choices.

"I told you so," her brother, Fitz, mutters. "Didn't I tell you so? Stay in the den, that's what I said. But _no_, you said, it will be an _adventure_, you said, we need to get out and _see the world_—"

"Yes, Fitz," she snaps, entirely sick of the conversation, which has been going in circles for the past three hours. "You did indeed tell me so. Congratulations. However, at the moment, I believe we have slightly more _pressing_ matters than my ill-advised decision to leave the den."

She bites back on the urge to remind him once more that he didn't _have_ to come with her; all that will do is lead to yet another round of the argument over whether or not he has a responsibility to save her from her own stupidity—and, of course, she can't let _that_ go unremarked, and therefore the debate about the difference between stupidity, bravery, recklessness, and curiosity will begin again.

Of course, it's not as though they have much else to do. Escape is, as they discovered in the first hour, entirely impossible; they've managed to untie the ropes which bound them, but there's no way out of the hole they're in.

That sounds almost poetic, she muses, but it's actually an accurate description of their current circumstances. They've been dropped to the bottom of a very deep hole—five metres at least—which they have no hope of climbing out of. The walls are smooth cement, with no cracks or hollows which might act as footholds, and they're too far down to reach the top, even if she stands on Fitz's shoulders.

They've tried everything, but it would appear that they're stuck. Hence the circular conversations which have so vexed her over the last three hours.

"Pressing matters," Fitz mocks. "Is that what you call this? We've been kidnapped by persons unknown, there's no way out of this hole, and it's three hours to moonrise—you call those _pressing matters_?"

"Well, what would you call it, then?" she demands.

"I'd call it a bloody disaster," he says. "I'd call it the worst thing that's ever happened to us, including the time we got caught in that blizzard when we were cubs, which, may I remind you, was _also_ your fault!"

She gasps, offended, and is about to respond when she's interrupted by the unmistakable sound of gunfire. Both of them duck, automatically covering their heads, even though the gunfire is five metres above them and, by the sound of it, in the next room besides.

"Guns?" Fitz hisses. "Who uses _guns_?"

It's a rhetorical question, but she answers it anyway. "Humans."

The information adds an entirely new dimension to the situation. Although they haven't actually discussed it, wary of being overheard by their captors (although they've neither seen nor heard a single sign of any such person since waking up here four hours ago), they've both been assuming that they're being held by fellow werewolves. A rival pack, perhaps, she was thinking—an Alpha who has a grudge against their own, or who wants the land which has belonged to the Fitz-Simmons pack for the last two hundred years.

But _humans_? Humans could want _anything_. And kidnapping them on the day of the full moon, no less; they might want to skin them for their fur, or use them as weapons against enemies, or…

"Stop it," Fitz says, pressing his arm against hers. "Fretting won't solve anything."

The words would be more calming if she couldn't see the panic in his eyes; he's just as frightened as she is, for all of the same reasons. The two of them are brilliant, the brightest products of their generation, but they're also young—barely more than cubs, really. Their control over their otherselves, the wolves within their souls, is shaky at best.

And, as Fitz so kindly reminded her earlier, it's only a few hours to moonrise.

The gunfire stops, just as suddenly as it began, but Jemma and Fitz remain crouched, pressing against the wall and each other. Jemma listens, straining her hearing for any sounds that might give her an idea of what's going on above them. This close to moonrise, her hearing is at its most sensitive—she can hear footsteps, breathing, the opening of doors.

There are three people above them, all—judging by the slow, steady heartbeats—human. But are these the people who captured them? Or the people who fired upon their captors?

And if they're the latter, what does it mean for Jemma and Fitz?

Another door opens, this one much closer than all of the others, and footsteps sound directly above them. One of the humans has just walked into the room containing their makeshift prison. Jemma and Fitz press closer together, and she feels him take her hand, lacing his fingers tightly with hers. Neither one speaks. Jemma barely dares to breathe.

"In here, sir," the human above them calls. It's a male voice, and the accent is American, of all things.

Jemma and Fitz exchange a wary look as, in response to the man's shout, the other two sets of footsteps approach. One pauses at the door, next to the American man, but the other person walks right up to the edge of their prison. Then, the man—and it is a man, as she shortly sees—kneels next to it and leans over the edge.

"Hi, there," he says. Jemma and Fitz both tilt their heads back to look at him. He's middle-aged, Jemma thinks, although it can be difficult to tell, with humans. His hair is thinning, and he's wearing a tie, which is dangling almost comically over the edge of the hole. He looks, in a word, harmless.

Jemma and Fitz know from experience how dangerous someone who looks harmless can be.

"What'cha doing?" the man asks. His tone is very casual, friendly. Like he's come across them strolling in a park, rather than cowering at the bottom of a hole. "Just hanging out?"

There's a sigh from one of the humans by the door—the one who hasn't spoken, Jemma thinks—and the man glances over his shoulder. When he looks back down at them, the pleasant expression on his face has disappeared, replaced with a studied calmness.

"My name is Agent Phil Coulson," he says. "I'm with SHIELD."

Fitz's grip on her hand slackens in surprise; Jemma, for her part, is just gaping up at the man above them.

SHIELD, properly known as but never called the Supernatural-Human Interspecies Exchange, Logistics Division, is a global organization dedicated to protecting the fragile peace between the humans and supernatural beings of the world. It employs all manner of beings: humans, werewolves, vampires, witches, pixies…everything.

SHIELD oversees and enforces the treaties between the races, and it maintains response teams which solve interspecies crime and see to the punishment of out-of-control beings, whether human or supernatural. Of course, considering their heavy involvement in the protection of the world as a whole, one wouldn't expect there to be much mystery attached to the organisation, but, somehow, there is.

Jemma has never met a SHIELD agent before. She's never even met anyone who's met a SHIELD agent.

This is shaping up to be a very strange day.

"Do you have names?" Coulson prompts, after a few minutes of Jemma and Fitz gaping at him.

Jemma starts. "Oh! Um, Jemma Simmons, sir. Of the Fitz-Simmons pack."

"Leo Fitz," Fitz says. "Same."

"Oh, good," Coulson says. "I would hate to rescue the wrong cubs. That would just be embarrassing."

Her first reaction is relief: this is a rescue operation, meaning that they will, presumably, shortly be removed from this hole. Her second reaction is puzzlement, because neither she nor Fitz spoke particularly loudly when introducing themselves. _They_ can hear Agent Coulson perfectly well, since it's so close to moonrise, but he's human—or at least he sounds it, by his heartbeat—and he should have had at least a little difficulty understanding them, from so far up.

A glance at Fitz shows that he's noticed this as well, but he shakes his head at her, a clear order to let it go. The last thing they need is for her curiosity to get them in trouble with SHIELD, he tells her by his expression.

Fair enough. She'll keep her questions to herself.

She's also a little offended to be called a cub—she's nearly twenty-four!—but, considering the circumstances, she's willing to allow it.

"Are either of you injured?" Coulson asks.

"Not significantly, sir," Jemma calls back up.

"Okay, good," he says. He looks over his shoulder again, then back at them. "If we drop a ladder down, will you be able to climb it?"

Jemma and Fitz exchange thoughtful looks. They've been able to determine that they were drugged before being brought here—as evidenced by the fact that the last thing they remember is being in the woods, alone—and they did suffer side-effects for a while. However, their senses have returned to normal pre-shift strength, and Jemma, for her part, is no longer particularly dizzy.

"Yeah," Fitz decides. "We can manage."

"Great," Coulson says. "Stand back."

Fitz scrambles to his feet, and then helps Jemma to hers. She allows it, even though she doesn't actually need help, because she knows it makes him feel better.

The two of them stand back and watch as a ladder slides down the far wall. As soon as the bottom hits the ground, they look at each other. It's occurred to Jemma—and Fitz, judging by his expression—that they don't actually have any proof that Coulson is a SHIELD agent. And the other two people in the room, one of whom hasn't spoken at all, could be anyone. This might be a trap.

But really, they're trapped at the bottom of a five metre hole. It's not like they can be in a _more_ vulnerable position. So Jemma gives Fitz a shrug and starts up the ladder. He follows closely.

It's a long way up, and Jemma focuses on ignoring what her senses are telling her in favour of continuing. She doesn't want to smell the scent that becomes stronger, the farther up she climbs—the smell of blood and death, coming from the next room, mixed with something she presumes must be gunpowder. Such an awful, violent way to die, gunfire is. But then, she supposes being torn to shreds by tooth or claw isn't much better.

Death, in general, is to be avoided. It's why Jemma wants to be a scientist—to study and discover ways to prolong life and increase healing. Her Alpha has been hesitating to allow her to leave the pack long enough to attend university, though, and this situation certainly won't help that.

When she reaches the top, Agent Coulson offers his hand to help her off the ladder, and she accepts it. (He smells like paper and pens and dusts. Old smells, comforting.)

She takes a deep breath as she moves to make way for Fitz. The blood/death/gunpowder smell is much, much stronger out of the hole, but it's not enough to completely erase her relief at being above ground once again. She can feel the approaching moonrise in her bones, the wolf inside bouncing around the hollows in her soul, and itches with the urge to run, now that she's no longer stuck in a circle that wasn't even two meters in diameter.

She glances at the two humans by the door. The second one, who hasn't spoken at all, is a woman—Asian, older, with an air of stoic competence. She smells like freedom: open air and clouds, and Jemma likes her at once.

The other human, the one who first entered the room, is a very tall man. He's facing away from her, eyes on the door with his gun at the ready, but he glances at her briefly, perhaps feeling her eyes on him.

He's very handsome.

He also smells like home: woods and caves and smoke. Jemma firmly pushes away her urge to cross the room and hug him. She is _not_ a cub any longer, and hugging people just because she likes their smell is not acceptable. Especially not a well-armed human; that's not _rude_, it's _stupid_.

"Well," Coulson says, helping Fitz off the ladder. "That was easy."

Jemma turns to stare at him, aghast. Is he _trying_ to summon a jinx-pixie?

"No, it wasn't," the woman disagrees flatly. The man shrugs.

"Easy-ish," Coulson amends. "Easier than I was expecting, when we got the call."

If he weren't a SHIELD agent, Jemma would slap her hand over his mouth to stop him from speaking. As it is, she gives him a politely incredulous look. This is exactly the sort of talk that draws jinx-pixies to people, and she's had a bad enough day already, thanks very much.

"Thank you for the rescue," Fitz says, apparently following her train of thought. "But, if you'll excuse us…"

"It's a little too close to moonrise for us to be comfortable here," Jemma completes. "So, we'll be on our way now."

"Nice meeting you," Fitz says, not entirely sincerely.

"Yeah," Coulson says before they can make for the door. "About that."

Jemma and Fitz exchange looks.

"We crossed off all of the hunters here," Coulson says. "But HYDRA has a long reach and a lot of resources. You're not safe yet."

Jemma is vaguely aware that she's gaping, but is powerless to stop. HYDRA? They were kidnapped by _HYDRA_? As in, the evil organisation that's been trying to bring down the International Peace Accords for the last _three hundred years_?

She tries to ask for clarification, but only manages to stammer incoherently. Usually she'd be embarrassed, but…_HYDRA_.

Fitz manages to recover before she does. "We were being held by HYDRA?"

"Yep," Coulson nods.

"Why?" Jemma finally manages. "What in Achelois' name would HYDRA want with _us_?"

He frowns. "We were hoping you could tell us."

Jemma and Fitz exchange helpless looks. Neither one of them has any idea what HYDRA could want with them. They're considered the brightest of their pack, true, but they haven't even been properly _educated_ yet. All of their experiments and inventions are pure trial-and-error. And while the Alpha of the Fitz-Simmons pack is their mother, they have several siblings, many of whom are roaming the world, defenceless. If the pack was the target, why them?

"Sir," the handsome man who smells like home says. "We need to move."

"Right," Coulson says. "Back to the Bus, then. FitzSimmons, you'll need to stick with us, for now."

"Agent Coulson," Jemma says. "Moonrise is—"

"Soon," he interrupts. "I know. We've made arrangements, don't worry. Come on."

She'd like a little more clarification on these 'arrangements' before going anywhere, but the man and woman (neither of whom have been introduced, she notes) are already leading the way out of the room. Jemma and Fitz exchange looks, have a brief debate through facial expressions, and then fall into step behind Coulson. What else can they do, really?

Well, faint, for one thing. Jemma has barely stepped foot into the next room (the one that smells so strongly of blood/death/gunpowder) when she's overcome by dizziness, and she falls into darkness.

x

For a moment, when she wakes, she thinks that it's all been a dream, and she's still in the den. The scents of home surround her, and she's aware of the warmth of another body pressed against hers, as she always is when she wakes.

Slowly, though, she becomes aware that something is wrong. For one thing, she's not being _snuggled_ (as Thalia always calls it), she's being _carried_.

She opens her eyes.

It wasn't a dream. The man who wasn't introduced, the one who smells like home, is carrying her. She can't have been unconscious for very long—the moon doesn't feel any closer than it did before she…fainted?—but it's been long enough to get away from the building where they were being held. She can't smell the blood/death/gunfire at all, now; they must have got fairly far while she was out.

Why was she out?

"What happened?" she asks.

The man carrying her glances at her and stops walking. "Can you walk?"

"Yes, of course," she says. He sets her down, but doesn't release her entirely, perhaps waiting to see if she falls. When she doesn't, he lets go and steps back. "What happened?"

"You fainted," Fitz says. He's standing next to her in an instant, face creased in worry. "There was wolfsbane in the warehouse."

"Wolfsbane? But we're the children of an Alpha," she protests. "Wolfsbane doesn't affect us."

He shrugs, helpless. "It's the only explanation, Simmons. There was nothing else that could've caused it, and you had all of the symptoms."

"Were you affected?" she demands.

"No," he says.

"I don't understand," she says.

"Neither do I," Fitz says, frowning. "It's so close to moonrise, too—even if you _were_ susceptible to wolfsbane, it shouldn't have been able to affect you so strongly right now."

"Theorizing can wait," Coulson says.

Jemma starts, then frowns. She didn't notice him. How did she not notice him? She should have smelled him or heard his heartbeat, at the very least.

Fitz's frown deepens. "Did he surprise you?"

"He did," she admits. She looks around, taking in their surroundings. They're standing next to an asphalt road in the middle of a forest. The woman from the—warehouse, did Fitz say? What a poor joke—is about a metre down the road, waiting with arms crossed. Coulson is standing halfway between her and the rest of them. The (still unnamed) man is still standing fairly close to Jemma, most likely in case she faints again.

They're in the middle of a forest, but she can't smell it. There are three humans with them, but she can't smell them or hear them. Fitz is right beside her, but she can't hear his heartbeat. If not for the packbond that connects them as siblings, she wouldn't know him as a wolf.

What is going _on_?

She presses a hand to her chest, searching her soul. She can still feel the approaching moon in her bones, but the wolf inside is quiet—cowed, almost. She can practically hear it whimpering, curled in a ball and hiding beneath her packbonds.

"I don't understand," she repeats.

"Miss Simmons," Coulson says, patient. "I realise that you're upset, right now, but we need to get to safety. Explanations will have to wait."

"Do you have an explanation?" she asks him.

"No," he admits. "But we'll find one, don't worry. In the meantime—"

Jemma nods, swallowing down her fear. She has no clue what's happening to her, no idea how any of this is possible, but she's still a wolf. She's still a daughter of the Fitz-Simmons pack, one of the oldest and most respected packs in the North Forest, and she will _not_ let her fear rule her.

"Of course," she says. "After you, then."

Coulson nods and starts down the road, in the direction of the woman, who has also started walking. Jemma and Fitz follow, and the man who smells like home (although it's so, so much fainter now) falls into step beside them.

"Thank you for carrying me," she says to him.

He nods silently.

"We weren't introduced earlier," she continues, mostly because she can't stand the silence; she hates it, hates the absence of heartbeats and breathing and the distant patter of paws. "I'm Jemma Simmons, of the Fitz-Simmons pack."

He glances at her briefly, and she's struck by his eyes—they're a gorgeous shade of brown, like earth and bark and leaves during autumn.

"Grant Ward," he says finally.

Ward. Like protect. It's a good name—a _strong_ name. Names are important to werewolves. It's nice that he's got a good one.

He's clearly not interested in conversation, though, so she leaves him be and focuses on her brother. He's frowning, casting suspicious glances at Ward and Coulson and the still nameless woman at the front of their odd little procession.

"It's all right, Fitz," she says, slipping her hand into his. "Don't frown so."

Fitz squeezes her hand. "I'm not frowning."

"You are," she disagrees. "You're frowning so hard you'll shift into a worrywart, if you're not careful."

He rolls his eyes, but his frown fades a little.

"You're gonna be fine," he says, keeping his eyes fixed on Coulson's back. "Whatever's happened, we'll fix it. We always do."

"Of course," she agrees. "Once we've messed it up in the first place, that is."

It makes him smile, a little. The fact is, this isn't the first time they've got themselves into trouble, and it most likely won't be the last. They'll figure it out. They have to.

And in the meantime—she darts another glance at Ward, and is surprised to find him looking back at her—if her senses are failing her, at least there's still a nice view.


	13. This Never Happened (AU of Soulmate AU)

The chapter that was originally here (the one thing that never happened in my soulmate au au) has been made its own, multi-chapter story. It's called "dare you to move (like today never happened)" and can be found by clicking on my username.


	14. Simmons Finds Out Ward is Ticklish

A/N: sapphireglyphs said: "So I see you are drowning in angsty feels. Let's talk about something happier shall we? SIMMONS FINDING OUT WARD IS TICKLISH! I'm sorry, dear, but this needs to be written. :D"

* * *

It was probably inevitable.

After all, Simmons is essentially the team's medic and, by virtue of his position, Grant is the member of the team most likely to require her services. So, it really was inevitable that she'd find out eventually.

It happens on a Wednesday. The team has spent the past three days tracking down a man who has been terrorizing a small town through the use of Asgardian tech, and they've finally managed to apprehend him. The arrest doesn't go quite as smoothly as they were hoping—when does it ever?—and Grant takes a pretty hard hit to the head with a pipe.

He's only unconscious for a few seconds, but it's long enough for Skye to notice, and once they've safely deposited their prisoner in the Cage, she promptly tattles to Simmons. Which leads him to his current position: sitting on a table in the lab while Simmons checks him over.

"Agent Ward, _please_ stay still," she says sternly.

Usually, he doesn't mind check-ups with Simmons. Letting a beautiful woman put her hands all over him is no hardship, for all that she (sadly) remains entirely professional. This time, however, he's having a little difficulty. This is because he was hit on the side of his head, and, in her efforts to examine the point of impact, Simmons' hand keeps brushing against his ear where he's ticklish.

It's _humiliating_. He's a highly trained specialist, one of SHIELD's best, capable of resisting torture and interrogation of the worst sort, but he can't keep himself still when someone touches his _ear_. He still hasn't lived it down with Skye, and the last thing he needs is for Simmons to find out, as well.

"Agent Ward," Simmons snaps.

"Sorry, Simmons," he says, forcibly stilling himself.

She shakes her head at him. "What is _wrong_ with you today? Usually you're such a good patient. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were…"

"I'm not," he says quickly, as she trails off with wide eyes. "Just a little restless, that's all."

"You _are_," she says, delighted. "Aren't you? You're _ticklish_."

"No," he denies. "No, I'm not. Like I _just_ said, I'm—"

"That's adorable," she says, ignoring his protests.

"Okay, whoa," he says. "First of all, I am _not_ ticklish. Second, if I were ticklish, it wouldn't be adorable."

"There's no shame in it, Ward," she says, patting him on the shoulder and stepping away. "It's a perfectly natural reaction. Both biologically and by the process of socialization. It's actually very fascinating…"

She crosses the room, still talking, but he mostly tunes her out. He catches the occasional word, but since those words are all along the lines of _somatosensory_ and _cingulated_ and _cerebellum_, he feels safe in assuming that even if he were listening, he'd have no hope of understanding her.

So he just watches her as she moves around the lab. Even as she chatters happily, her movements are…graceful isn't quite the word. She's too deliberate, too purposeful, to really be described as graceful—at least right now—and yet, it's the only word he can think of. Well, aside from things like _beautiful_ and _lovely_ and _really fucking gorgeous_, that is.

He sighs, shifting slightly on the table. His increasing attraction to Simmons is proving just as impossible to suppress as his ticklishness. It's a problem.

"Now," Simmons says, pulling him out of his thoughts. She's standing in front of him again, holding some kind of scanner attached to a tablet. "Turn your head to your left, please."

He obeys, watching in his peripheral vision as she holds the scanner up to the side of his head. There's a brief hum, a beep, and then Simmons lowers the scanner.

"Thank you," she says. "You can look back at me now." She pauses. "If you like, that is. You're not _obligated_ to look at me. That would be strange."

He does look back at her—because why wouldn't he—and frowns, a little confused. She seems really flustered all of a sudden, and he has no idea why.

Flushing under his scrutiny, she looks down at the tablet attached her scanner.

"This all looks in order," she says. "No sign of bleeding or swelling. You said you were only unconscious for a moment?"

"Yeah," he nods absently, mind still on her strange behavior. "Just a few seconds, really."

"I see," she murmurs, setting the tablet/scanner down. "Well, as long as you're not experiencing anything worse than a headache…"

"Nope," he confirms. They already went over the basic questions, but it's not a surprise that she's asking again.

"Very well, then," she says. "There's no visible wound and no signs of internal damage. We'll keep an eye on you for the rest of the day, and I want you to come straight to me if you begin to experience any of the symptoms we discussed earlier, but I think you're all right."

"Good," he says. It finally clicks, as she makes eye contact, that she's not just flustered. She's _attracted_. He doesn't know why, but she's suddenly started displaying all of the visual cues he's trained to look for when seducing a mark.

Not that he's seducing her—at least not on purpose.

"Good," she echoes. She takes a few steps back, making room for him to slide off the table. "Do you have any questions?"

In for a penny.

"Just the one," he says, standing. "What about finding out that I'm ticklish made me attractive to you?"

Simmons stammers a denial, obviously caught off guard.

"Your eyes are dilated," he points out. "And you're blushing. You were completely calm and professional until you found out that I'm ticklish, at which point you walked away and started babbling for no apparent reason. So…what changed?"

She narrows her eyes at him, recovering her composure. "You must have been paying very close attention to note all of that, Agent Ward."

"I was," he agrees. "I always pay close attention to you. Which is why I know that while you think I'm attractive, you've never displayed any signs of being _attracted_ to me—and trust me, I've been looking. So?"

She blinks a little, taking in the indirect confession, and then smiles, a little smugly.

"You've been looking, have you?" she asks.

He nods.

"It's not so much that you're ticklish," she says, taking a step closer. "As it is that you're embarrassed by it."

"You've got a thing for embarrassment?" He may have completely misjudged her.

"No," she laughs. "But I also don't have a—a _thing_ for the stoic sort. Being embarrassed over something as silly as ticklishness makes you seem much more…approachable."

"And you like it when men are approachable?" he asks.

"I do," she confirms. She steps closer again, which puts her firmly within his personal space.

He's pretty sure he's reading the signs right. And, if he's not, he can always claim concussion.

So, without further ado, he bends down and kisses her. Fortunately, she responds with great enthusiasm.

(He's pretty sure that, despite her apologies, the way she keeps brushing her fingers against his ear is entirely deliberate. But, whatever. He can live with that.)


	15. Time Travel AU

A/N: This wasn't actually prompted, but it came to me and I couldn't let it go. It will probably become an actual story someday (someday soon, knowing me), but for now, here's what I've got. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

_Who are you without him?_

In theory, it's a difficult question. Without John to guide him, to give him orders and purpose, who is he? Take away all the roles he's played: Grant Ward, specialist; Grant Ward, SO; Grant Ward, protector; Grant Ward, Agent of SHIELD; Grant Ward, _traitor_—what's left? Strip away all of the covers and lies, and what's revealed, hiding beneath them?

It sounds nice, in theory. But in practice? Without John, he's a prisoner.

Coulson hands him over to the military—mostly, Grant thinks, because there's really nothing else that can be done with him. After all, the Fridge is lost to HYDRA (oops), and SHIELD's various detention facilities have been seized by the governments whose soil they stand on. So into military custody he goes.

They toss him into a cell in a containment facility somewhere in the Midwest, and it's actually not too bad. Three square meals a day, enough room to maintain his work-out regimen (pointless as it may be), and full access to the prison library, as long as he doesn't cause any trouble. It's not _great_, but they're certainly not the worst conditions he's ever lived under.

Oh, and there's no torture. That's an unexpected bonus of being in military hands instead of Coulson's. Grant's under no illusions there: if Coulson had him, he would be suffering under May's tender mercies on a regular basis. Coulson might like to play the good guy, but he can be surprisingly ruthless when the mood strikes him. And considering Grant's crimes against Coulson's team? The mood would _definitely_ strike.

With the distance a few months brings, Grant can admit he made some missteps, there. He doesn't regret all of it—frankly, SHIELD was just as shady as HYDRA, in its own way, and he's not at all sorry to see it gone—but there are some things he would take back, if he could.

Starting with Skye. If ever he needed proof that emotional attachment can skew a man's judgment, pretty much every action he's taken since meeting Skye would do nicely. Because of his feelings for her—or, to be more accurate, his fascination with her—he became obsessed with her. Something which kept him from seeing the _obvious_ solution to all of his and John's problems.

Namely, FitzSimmons. Grant can't believe he didn't see it at the time, but he was so busy with the role he was playing, so busy trying to gain everyone's trust, that it never occurred to him just how _useful_ FitzSimmons would have been.

John could've been saved months ago. Forget the GH-325—and considering the way it drove John out of his fucking mind, Grant really would prefer to—FitzSimmons probably could have found a way to fix John in ten minutes. And, if only he'd found a way to bring the problem to them before HYDRA came out of the shadows, they even would have done it _willingly_.

Right after Skye was shot would have been perfect. Those weeks she spent recovering, when Simmons was constantly poring over Coulson's medical file, trying to figure out the secrets of GH325 so she could figure out a way to use it to save others…

She was having doubts about SHIELD, he remembers. Reading the transcript of what was done to Coulson while trying to save his life horrified her. And then there was Coulson himself, and the way he kept insisting that she not study the GH-325, without explaining why she shouldn't.

All he would have had to do was tell her that John had been hurt—hurt when SHIELD abandoned him, the way Grant and Fitz were abandoned in South Ossetia, something that would gain even more of her sympathy—and that he'd gone to outside sources for help in healing. Healing which had kept him alive for a while, but was now failing, and would she mind taking a look?

She would have. Simmons' whole purpose in joining SHIELD was to save lives, and that, plus presenting her and Fitz with an interesting puzzle, would have been enough to get them working on John—who, after all, was a highly respected superior officer, and the friend of a friend. They would have no reason _not_ to help him.

All of this could have been avoided. Not HYDRA revealing itself and SHIELD falling, true, but those were overdue, anyway. John's little spiral into insanity, though? Grant being forced to take action against the team? May _fracturing his larynx_, which has still not healed properly, thanks very much?

All of it could have been avoided. If only he weren't so blinded by his obsession with Skye.

So, yeah. Rather than spending all of his time musing on who he is without John, the way Coulson said he would, he mostly just thinks himself in circles about what he would change if it were possible. If he could go back in time, just a few months—just to a few weeks before things fell apart—if he could do it all again…

He learned a long time ago that wishing doesn't solve anything, but it's not like he's got much else to do.

"Ward?"

He blinks up at the ceiling, surprised. The voice isn't familiar, which is strange in and of itself—at this point, he knows just about everyone that works at the prison, at least well enough to identify them by voice. Also strange is the fact that it's a _female_ voice. There aren't a lot of women working at the prison, and the few who do certainly don't make a habit of wandering around the cell block.

He's curious enough to sit up and turn to face the door to his cell. There's a woman standing on the other side of the bars. As he thought, she's not someone he knows. She's wearing a guard's uniform and a nametag that says "Hi! My name is Janice! :)"

There's a smiley face. On her _nametag_. What the hell.

"Grant Ward?" she asks. "That's you, right?"

He nods.

"Oh, right," she says, checking the clipboard she's carrying. "Fractured larynx, ouch. Well, there's no need to speak, then. I've got a delivery for you."

A delivery? Who the hell would send _him_ anything?

"Well?" she prompts. "Come on, then. I don't have all day."

There's something weird happening here. Even putting aside her nametag and her gender and her ill-fitting uniform, there's _something_ about her that has all of his specialist instincts screaming at him. She may _look_ like someone who took a wrong turn on her way to teach kindergarten, but she's dangerous. He doesn't know how, but he's sure of it. This woman is a threat.

Janice eyes him and sighs. "Not buying it, huh?"

He shakes his head and gets to his feet. There's not much in his cell that isn't bolted down, but there's enough for him to do some damage with, if he's so inclined. He hasn't bothered thus far—too much effort for too little reward—but he's certainly capable of it. He can defend himself, if this woman makes a move against him.

"So much for the easy way," Janice tuts.

She takes a step closer to the bars and he tenses, preparing himself. Then, between one heartbeat and the next, she's in his cell.

What the _fuck_.

She didn't open the door and walk in, no. She disappeared from the hallway and reappeared inside his cell. She just fucking _teleported_. If she's Asgardian he's going to be really, really pissed, because he's had enough of that fucking race and their goddamned sorceresses.

He drops into a defensive position, wary, and she just rolls her eyes.

"I'm not here to hurt you, darling," she says. The Midwest accent she was using before is gone, replaced by something a little more Mediterranean. "I'm here to, heh, _grant_ you a boon."

His first instinct is to roll his eyes, 'cause yeah, no one's made _that_ joke before. His second instinct is to make a move for the door, because strange women who can teleport offering boons sounds like something he really doesn't want to get involved in.

He barely has time to shift his weight, however, before she's right in front of him, one hand extended.

"Not so fast, darling," she scolds. "Like I said, I don't intend to hurt you. I'm here to do you a favor."

Yeah, right. When was the last time someone did _him_ a favor? He raises an eyebrow at her, skeptical.

"Really," she insists. "You want another chance, right? Things went wrong and you know _exactly_ how to fix them. I'm going to give you the opportunity."

That's disturbing on a number of levels, not least of which is that she knows what he's been thinking about. Of course, he'd wager that the vast majority of prisoners spend their time thinking of where they went wrong and how they could have avoided being imprisoned, so that may just be a lucky guess.

Also, there's the issue of a woman of unknown power and origin offering to give him something that he wants. There's definitely a catch in there somewhere, and as much as he'd like to change things, he's pretty sure the cost wouldn't be worth it.

So he just shakes his head and eases away from her, sideways towards the wall.

"Really?" Janice scoffs. "I'm giving you the chance to go back in time and fix your mistakes, and you're saying no?"

When she lays it out like that it's really tempting, but…yeah. He's saying no.

He tenses as Janice reaches into her pocket, but she doesn't pull out a weapon, just a strange gold coin. It looks like something from a movie—a pirate's buried treasure, maybe—and it makes him uneasy. He takes another few steps away, casually.

"Are you sure?" she asks, voice soft. "You could go _back_, darling. A few months, that's all. John was like a father to you, wasn't he? You could save your father's _life_, darling. Fix your mistakes, undo your wrongs." She smiles a little, teasing. "Save yourself the trouble of a fractured larynx."

He's tempted. He's very, very tempted. But he has no idea who this woman is, aside from presumably an alien—what with the teleporting, and the fact that no one has come to investigate the presence of an unauthorized visitor inside a prisoner's cell—and he's had a little too much experience with the downsides of exposure to alien artifacts, lately.

He thinks of the Chitauri virus, Simmons slowly dying before their very eyes, and takes another step away.

"Now, really," Janice huffs. "You're starting to hurt my feelings. There's no catch here, darling. There's no fine print. All you have to do is accept this coin, and you'll travel back six months."

Six months. That would put him…

"The days after your friend Skye got shot," Janice says, raising her eyebrows at him. "Isn't that exactly _when_ you've been wanting to go?"

It is. It really is. He could change _everything_—well, everything of importance, anyway. Avoid getting 'whammied' (to borrow Skye's term) by that bitch Lorelei, convince FitzSimmons to take a look at John, keep John from taking the GH-325 and therefore losing his mind…

It's tempting. It's _so_ tempting. But just because she _says_ there isn't a catch doesn't mean it's true.

"I'm running out of time here, darling," Janice says, glancing at her wrist as if she's wearing a watch. (She's not.) "Things to do, places to be, you know how it is. Make your choice: life in prison? Or going back and fixing things?"

Things can always get worse. He knows that for a fact. It's practically his motto, at this point. But…if he says no, he's just going to spend the rest of his time in prison (and who knows how long that'll be?) wondering what could've happened.

Which is worse: the potential that this has to blow up in his face? Or spending the rest of his life regretting rejecting the offer?

He sighs and holds out his hand. Say what you want about him, but no one can deny he's willing to take chances when it suits him.

"Good choice," Janice says, smiling. "I wish you all the luck in the world, darling. Goodness knows you'll need it."

Before he can really process that, she drops the coin into his hand. It's heavier than he's expecting, and warmer. He glances down at it, taking in the lettering along the edges—Latin, he's surprised to realize—and then back up.

She's gone.

A second later, so is he.

x

For a minute, when he first wakes up, he doesn't realize that there's anything wrong. He's in his bunk on the Bus—he recognizes the feel of the mattress, the smell of the recycled air, the sound of the engines—and it strikes him as odd, but he's not sure why.

Then he remembers, and he sits up quickly.

He _is_ in his bunk. Same mattress, same covers, same weird little wall hanging that Skye picked up in Ireland and kept sneaking into his bunk to hang up until he gave up on taking it down and just left it there.

For a long moment he just stares at it, disbelieving. Then he leans over to grab his phone from where it's sitting on the shelf, plugged into the charger, the same as it was every morning that he ever woke up on the Bus. The time says 0500, and the date…

March 6, 2014. Either this is a _really_ elaborate, really bizarre joke, or that coin _actually_ sent him back in time.

As he stares at the phone, considering, it buzzes with a text message. It's from Skye.

_You'd tell me if Simmons had been turned into a vampire while I was out, right?_

After a moment, he becomes aware that he's gaping at his phone, and hurriedly closes his mouth. It's a good thing no one was around to see him make that face, but—just. Wow. He _remembers_ this text message, remembers getting it once before.

This might actually be happening. He might actually have gone back in time.

Well, there's one easy way to check.

He slides out of bed and leaves his bunk. The cabin is quiet and dark, as is to be expected at five o'clock in the morning. There's no sign of the damage the Bus was sporting when last he saw it, but then, it's been months. Even if he hasn't traveled back in time, the Bus has probably been repaired by now.

He crosses the cabin and enters the bathroom, flipping on the light and closing the door behind him. Then, steeling himself, he looks in the mirror.

The beard he's been growing is gone, but that would be easy enough to shave. Of more interest is the other thing that's missing: the scar.

The cut on his cheekbone that was inflicted by HYDRA agents at the Hub and then reopened in the beating John gave him did indeed scar, as Simmons predicted it would. He hates it. It makes him flinch every time he catches a glimpse of his reflection—something he's taken to avoiding. He hates what it represents, hates that the sight of it always takes him back to the lab, Simmons patching him up while Fitz hovered and Skye made cracks about him being ruggedly handsome.

He hates the scar. Or, rather, _hated_—because it's gone.

He rubs at his cheek where the scar used to be. He doesn't feel any false skin or make-up, can't detect any difference between the skin where his scar should be and the skin on the other side.

It's not definitive proof, but…it's a good sign.

There's still the possibility that this is a trick. Some bizarre punishment Coulson came up with—letting him think he's gone back in time, stringing him along long enough to get his hopes up, and then send him back to prison. It's a little out there, sure, but so is a mysterious woman sending him back in time for no apparent reason.

He leaves the bathroom, thinking. Coulson and May both have training in undercover work—the latter more so, of course, but Coulson's had his share. Skye's a good liar, good enough to trick him—and isn't that embarrassing, in retrospect.

There's one member of the team he _knows_ can't trick him, though. Simmons can't lie to save her life. She also had some very strong negative opinions about him the last time they met, and dropping her out of the Bus could only have made things worse. If he hasn't gone back in time—if she remembers what happened—there's no way she can keep up a pleasant façade.

And, judging by the text message, she's currently downstairs with Skye.

He swings by his bunk to get dressed, then heads down to the cargo bay. If he _has_ gone back in time, then he needs to be careful not to make anyone suspicious. Showing up in the lab at five in the morning looking like he's just rolled out of bed? Suspicious. Showing up in the cargo bay at five in the morning, dressed for training? Not so much.

Simmons is indeed in the lab, bent over a microscope. The security feed from the med-pod is on the monitor, displaying a sleeping Skye. She looks about like he remembers she did in the days immediately following the incident on the train—but make-up can do a lot. It's no guarantee.

He hesitates briefly outside of the lab. This is it. He takes a deep breath, centers himself, and slides back into Grant Ward, Agent of SHIELD. Just in case.

Then he walks into the lab and knocks on a table to get Simmons' attention. She jumps.

"Oh!" she says, pressing a hand to her heart. "Agent Ward. I didn't see you there."

It suddenly occurs to him that there's another way he could've tested the time travel theory, and he feels more than a little stupid for missing it. Well, he can test it now.

"Sorry," he says. "Didn't mean to scare you."

It comes out easily, without any pain. Nothing at all like it has been, these past few months since May fractured his larynx.

Coulson might have been able to pull him out of his cell, but fixing his larynx? Repairing months-old damage that the doctors at the prison had shrugged off as nothing they could heal?

Probably not.

"That's all right," Simmons says. "Did you need something?"

It's a polite question, asked kindly with a touch of friendly concern. There's no hint of anger or disgust or fear.

This might actually be real.

"Just wanted to check your status," he says, aiming for casual. "Skye seems to think you've become one of the undead."

Simmons sighs, all fond exasperation. "Oh, honestly. I've told her twice already—we injected her with a drug about which we know _nothing_. Of course I need to monitor her condition closely."

"Hey, I'm not arguing," he assures her, holding up his hands. "Do what you have to do. Just, you know, considering the things we've seen, it didn't seem like something I should dismiss out of hand."

"No, I suppose not," Simmons smiles. "We have seen our fair share of bizarre occurrences lately, haven't we?"

The most recent of which being a strange woman who seems to have sent him back in time. Yeah, vampires aren't really that far out of the question.

"Well," he says. "As long as you're _not_ a vampire…?"

"I'm not," she confirms.

"I'll let you get back to work, then," he says. "You want the door closed?"

Simmons is an early bird—earlier than Fitz, certainly—and over the months they worked together, they often shared space in the early mornings: Simmons working in the lab while he got his own morning training done with before he had to walk Skye through hers. Sometimes, if she was working on something important or delicate, she would have the door closed, but most times it stayed open. They didn't really interact at all, just went about their respective work in a comfortable silence.

"No, that's not necessary," Simmons says, giving him another smile. "I'm just running some tests on Skye's blood, that's all. Nothing that needs quiet."

"Okay," he says. "I'll be out here, then."

He escapes out into the cargo bay, his mind reeling. The way she smiled at him, the tone of her voice, the lack of hesitation about leaving the door open…

Either Simmons has become a really, really good actress in the last six months, or she's not angry at him. Or scared of him. Or disgusted by him.

His larynx has healed. His scar is gone. Simmons seems to be perfectly okay with him. He's on the Bus.

He may actually have gone back in time. In fact, at this point, he'd have to say that it's _likely_ he has. It's March. All of the horrible things that started after Skye got shot, the way things went downhill, the way they fell apart…

None of it has happened yet. None of it has happened, and he's been given a gift-wrapped opportunity to make sure that it never does. He can change it all.

And, he thinks, glancing over his shoulder at Simmons, he knows exactly where to start.


	16. Jemma Wears a Dress

A/N: anonymous said: "they head out to a SHIELD Facility and Jemma dresses..differently. Why? Who? What? BioSpecialist"

* * *

"What are you _wearing_?"

Attention caught by Skye's half impressed, half incredulous tone, Grant looks up from his tablet and nearly chokes on his tongue. Simmons is wearing a dress.

There's nothing unprofessional about it. It's not short, revealing, or overly colorful. It is, in fact, a sedate grey, with white flowers stitched along the hem. It has wide straps and falls to just below her knees. It's entirely compliant with the SHIELD dress code, a perfectly acceptable dress to be wearing during business hours in their place of employment. The only reason it should rate even a second glance is that it's on Simmons, who he's never seen wear anything but pants—jeans, usually.

And yet…

He finds his eyes drawn to her collarbones, to her shoulders, to her legs. He's never seen her show so much skin, and it's unexpectedly distracting. He tries to shake it off, to return his attention to the report he's been working on, but he can't tear his eyes away from her.

This is ridiculous. He didn't have this much trouble focusing when he went undercover as a photographer at a lingerie shoot, for crying out loud.

"Do you like it?" Simmons asks, distracting him.

For a moment he's afraid that she's noticed his preoccupation, but then he realizes, with relief, that she's speaking to Skye.

"Duh," Skye says. "You look hot. But _why_ do you look hot?"

Simmons clears her throat. "What do you mean?"

"I _mean_ that I couldn't get you out of your jeans that time we went clubbing in Miami, and now you're wearing a dress to some random SHIELD base?" Skye asks. "What gives?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Simmons says unconvincingly. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to look nice for a meeting with one's superiors."

"Uh huh," Skye says, unimpressed. She turns to Fitz as he enters the room. "Fitz! Simmons is wearing a dress."

Fitz looks up from the…thing he's fiddling with (is that a robot? It looks like a robot. Grant is concerned.) and blinks a little. Then he looks Simmons over and frowns.

"Really, Simmons?" he demands. "_Really_?"

"There is _nothing_ wrong with what I'm wearing," Simmons defends. "_You_, Leopold Fitz, have absolutely no say in how I dress."

"I do when you change it—"

"And furthermore—"

"—for ridiculous reasons—"

"—I think we should be more focused—"

"—like trying to impress—"

"—on the reason we're here—"

"—an idiot who never—"

"—which if you recall—"

"—even deserved you in the first place!"

"—is the imminent destruction of our team!"

The two scientists are yelling by the time they finish their respective sentences, and the resulting silence is very tense.

Predictably, Skye is the one to break it. "Ward? Did you catch any of that?"

"Some of it," he says. He sets his tablet aside, giving up on finishing his report, and stands. The bit about Simmons trying to impress someone (an ex-boyfriend, maybe? He doesn't know what that makes him feel, but the fact he feels anything at all is concerning) was interesting, but he's a little more interested in Simmons' half of the conversation. "What's this about the team being destroyed?"

"Well," Simmons says, looking suddenly hunted. "That is to say…" She darts a glance at Fitz.

"What Simmons is stuttering over," he starts, then breaks off. "I mean…We're…"

Simmons takes a deep breath and seems to steel herself. "The question has been raised as to whether a field team is the best place for us. There are…concerns."

"What kind of concerns?" Skye demands, looking a little worried.

"Since joining this team, our productivity has decreased by five percent," Simmons says.

"SHIELD thinks we aren't being used to our full potential," Fitz expands.

"Used to your full potential?" Skye scoffs. "Like you're a…a cell phone plan?"

"SHIELD _has_ invested a considerable amount of time and funding into us," Simmons shrugs.

"Yeah," Fitz agrees. "It's really not a surprise that they'd be concerned about us _risking our necks_ in the field."

It really isn't. In fact, Grant's surprised that it hasn't come up before now.

"So that's why we're here?" Skye asks. "So some…SHIELD suit can decide whether or not you two can stay on the team?"

Fitz nods. "The Agent Resource Office summoned the two of us and Agent Coulson for an inquiry."

"They'll determine whether or not we're best serving SHIELD's interests in our current positions," Simmons says.

"Or if we'd be more use back in the labs," Fitz finishes.

"Can you believe this?" Skye demands, rounding on Grant.

The inquiry isn't a surprise. It's only to be expected, really. He doesn't want to lose FitzSimmons from the team, of course, but that's not his main concern at the moment.

"What I want to know," he says, crossing his arms. "Is why we're only hearing about this now."

"Um," Simmons says. "About that."

"I told them not to say anything," Coulson says as he descends the stairs from his office.

"Why?" Skye asks. "If I'd known, I could've…"

"Exactly," Coulson says as she trails off. "There's nothing any of you can do."

Sometimes what someone _doesn't_ say is just as important as what they do. "Any of _us_, sir?"

"I, fortunately, am in a much better position to influence the committee's opinion," Coulson says, with a pleasant smile. "And will do so to the best of my ability."

"Okay, good," Skye says. "So, FitzSimmons aren't going anywhere, right?"

Coulson remains silent.

"_Right_?"

"In the end, it's the committee's decision," Coulson finally answers. "I'll do my best, but…after I give my report, it's out of our hands."

"We'll see about that," Skye mutters, pulling her phone out of her pocket. "Hey!"

May, having plucked the phone right out of Skye's hands before anyone but Grant realized she was there, hands it over to Coulson.

"You can have that back when we're done here," she says flatly. "Hacking the committee won't help our cause."

"What _will_ help our cause?" Skye asks. "There has to be _something_ we can do."

"All we can do is remain calm and professional during our interviews," Simmons says, sending Fitz a pointed look. "And _not_ lose our tempers."

Fitz rolls his eyes.

"I mean it, Fitz," Simmons says sternly. "You are _not_ to shout at the committee, regardless of who may or may not be on it."

"Shout," Fitz scoffs. "I'll do worse than _shout_, if that bloody—"

"Fitz!"

"Whoa," Skye says. "Is there something _else_ I'm missing?" She pauses. "Does it have anything to do with why Simmons is wearing a dress?"

Coulson and May exchange looks, then May rolls her eyes and walks out.

"We need to be in Conference Room B in fifteen minutes," Coulson says to FitzSimmons. "Don't be late."

Then he follows May out.

"Guys?" Skye prompts. Fitz and Simmons are looking pointedly away from each other. "Simmons? Dress? Shouting? What don't I know?"

Grant's really tempted to make a crack about that—something about how they only have fifteen minutes, not all week—but he's kind of curious, himself, so he remains silent.

Simmons sighs. "There's a certain agent stationed at this base, with whom I have…history. He works in AR, and it's possible he'll be on the committee."

"Wait," Skye grins. "You mean like an ex-boyfriend? _Simmons_, you've been holding out on us!"

"No, I haven't," Simmons denies, smoothing her skirt a little self-consciously. "It's just never come up, that's all."

"So, what's he like?" Skye asks. "Is he hot? Is that a temptation dress or a revenge dress?"

"Revenge dress?" Grant echoes before he can stop himself. Because, really, _what_?

"You know," Skye says. "A dress meant to say 'look how hot I am, too bad you aren't allowed to touch me anymore.'"

Grant blinks a little, assimilating that information.

"So, which is it?" Skye presses, turning back to Simmons.

"Well, I wouldn't say that it's a _revenge_ dress, precisely," Simmons says. "But it _certainly_ isn't meant to tempt him."

"Why not?" Skye frowns. "Did it end badly? Do we hate him forever?"

"Yes," Fitz mutters.

Simmons rolls her eyes at him. "My former relationships are not the issue, here. We need to get to the conference room for the inquiry hearing."

"Your evasion has been noted and will not be forgotten," Skye warns her. "But I'll let it go for now. The important question is, if this mysterious ex-boyfriend _is_ on the committee, will that help or hurt our chances?"

"Help them," Simmons says.

"Hurt them," Fitz says over her.

The two frown at each other, then Simmons shakes her head.

"We really don't have time for this," she says. "And, in any case, it's all academic. We won't know until we get there whether he's even on the committee."

"Let's go, then," Grant says. He was planning on spending their time at this base catching up on his backlog of AARs, but that was before he knew FitzSimmons' positions were in question. He's not about to miss this hearing, even if he won't be allowed to contribute.

Simmons gives him a nod and turns on her heel, heading out of the lounge. He falls into step beside her and hears Skye and Fitz following. Skye is attempting to question Fitz about this ex-boyfriend of Simmons', but all he's doing is muttering incomprehensibly, his accent thickened by his irritation.

Grant makes a mental note to do some questioning of his own, later. It's not that he's jealous. Of course he's not. That would be ridiculous. He's just…concerned, that's all. He needs to know these kinds of things about his teammates. In order to protect them, he needs…

…A complete accounting of Simmons' dating history? Even in his head it sounds ridiculous. He's completely jealous, there's no denying it.

As they walk down the cargo ramp, Grant glances down at Simmons, once again taking in and appreciating the way the dress she's wearing bares skin she usually hides under button-down shirts and cardigans. She has surprisingly (or maybe not so surprisingly) delicate collarbones, and they're nicely framed by the dress' square neckline.

Whoever this ex-boyfriend is, Grant hopes he gets the chance to meet him. Whether to punch him in the face out of sheer jealousy or thank him for motivating Simmons to wear that dress, he's not sure.

Probably both, to be honest.


	17. Jemma and Grant Escape Captivity

A/N: anonymous said: "Everything's going to be okay. You're with me, now."

**warnings: **semi-graphic descriptions of violence and injury

* * *

Grant's head is killing him.

It's his first thought when he wakes. His second is that he's not where he's supposed to be, and he traps the groan of pain that wants to escape in his throat. He's on the ground, cold concrete beneath him instead of his bed, and that's not a good sign. Neither is what he can smell.

Over his years of specialist work, he's seen a lot of cells, and he's learned that most of them share a certain, distinct smell. A mix of blood and sweat and metal and something else—something he might call despair, if he were a poetic man. That's the scent that surrounds him at the moment.

He keeps his eyes closed and his breathing steady, feigning unconsciousness while he takes stock of his surroundings. Sight's a useful sense, but it's not the only one he's got. He pushes past the pain in his head and _focuses_.

There's someone else in the…cell? Whatever. Wherever he is, he's not alone. He can hear someone taking quick, unsteady breaths—working the edge of panic, he thinks. Probably not one of his captors, then, unless it's a trick.

He waits a while longer, but he doesn't hear or sense anyone else. He's learned all he can from playing possum; it's time for action. So he opens his eyes and rolls to his feet in one smooth motion, dropping into a defensive crouch, facing the other occupant of the room.

Then he straightens, relief and concern warring within him, because his cellmate (and this _is_ a cell) is Jemma.

"Hey," he says, taking a step towards her. She flinches back, and he stops. "Jemma? Are you okay?"

A second look at her proves that no, she's not. She's obviously been worked over, and _hard_—bruised and bleeding and cradling her arm in a way that suggests it's broken. She also happens to be _cowering_ (there's really no other word for it) in the corner.

The sight sparks fury with in him, and he pushes it aside. It takes a few seconds, which is concerning in and of itself. He started this relationship with her as a way of gaining her and Fitz's trust—a way to get closer to the team's two most valuable assets—but he suspects he's starting to develop a genuine emotional attachment to her. That's a weakness, and it's not good.

He'll worry about it later. For now, he needs to calm her down and find out what's going on. Then he'll get them out of here, get her to safety, and come back to express his displeasure with whoever worked her over.

"Jemma," he says, keeping his voice soft. "I don't know what's going on, but everything's going to be okay. You're with me, now."

They must have been separated before—it's the only explanation for the fact that she's in such bad shape while all he's got is a headache.

Jemma's eyes widen a little, then dart around the cell. "You don't…know what's going on?"

"No, I don't," he confirms. "I have no idea where we are or how we got here."

"You've, um." She blinks rapidly and swallows. He notes the way her hands are shaking and frowns. He's never seen her this terrified before. Whatever's happening, they must really be in trouble. "You were struck in the head with a large pipe. The head injury is…likely affecting your memory. What's the last thing you remember?"

He casts his mind back, but it's difficult to think past the pain in his head. Things are a little hazy; he doesn't have a distinct moment he can point to, can't say exactly what he was doing before waking up in this cell.

"The Bus," he says finally. "We were parked in Miami. Making plans of what to do while Skye recovers." He looks around the cell, rueful. "I guess vacation's over, huh?"

"Yes," she agrees quietly. "You could certainly say that."

"I'm gonna get us out of here," he promises seriously. "You know that, don't you?"

She smiles weakly. "Of course you are."

She doesn't sound convinced, but, although it's a little insulting, it's not much of a surprise. She's obviously been through hell already. And, to be fair, he obviously wasn't able to _stop_ them from getting taken, so…

A little doubt is understandable.

"In the meantime," he says. "You wanna come out of that corner, let me take a look at you?"

Jemma hesitates, and he doesn't push. It's also understandable that she'd want to stay in the corner, which is a defensible position—two walls at her back, and it's the farthest point in the room from the door. He has a feeling she'll be spending a lot of time in corners in the near future; this isn't the kind of experience that can be brushed aside easily.

He deliberately avoids thinking about the way his heart clenches at the thought.

Eventually, she swallows and seems to steel herself, then inches forward. He waits patiently, keeping perfectly still for fear of spooking her.

Out of the shadowed corner, he can see her better, and as she stands in front of him, he looks over her again. She looks awful. Her face and arms are mottled with bruises, and there's a fucking _handprint_ around her neck. The cut on her face—which, to his practiced eye, looks like it was deliberately inflicted with a knife—is without question going to scar. Her right arm is _definitely_ broken, and there's bloodstained fabric (a piece of her shirt, he thinks, serving as a makeshift bandage) wrapped around her left forearm. Judging by the amount of blood, whatever wound it's covering needs stitches.

He takes a deep breath and pushes away his rage. Emotion is weakness, and he can't be distracted right now.

(But once he's gotten Jemma to safety, he is _definitely_ going to come back and cross off every single person in this building.)

"Some of these are old," he comments, tilting her chin up to get a better look at the bruising on her neck. (He ignores the way she flinches as he raises his hand; thinking about it will only make him angrier.) It's a dark purple color, which means it's at least three days old. "How long have we been here?"

"Four days," she says, swallowing again.

Considering the placement and severity of the bruise on her neck, talking must be painful. He decides to cut the questioning short—the whys and hows and whens of their captivity can wait for the debrief. He doesn't need to know who their captors are to kill them, after all.

"Have you had anything to eat?" he asks, letting go of her chin.

Jemma shakes her head. "Just a little water to drink."

"If I get us out of here, are you gonna be able to run?"

She hesitates, then nods.

"One last question," he says. "Were any of the others taken? Or is it just us?"

"Just us," she says, quietly miserable.

He tucks some of her hair behind her ear and rests his hands lightly on her shoulders. He doesn't dare hug her, not when he has no idea what other injuries her clothes may be hiding—her breathing is still kind of shaky; she might have a broken rib or two—so he leans down and kisses her instead. Her lip is split, so he keeps it very gentle and very brief, but it's enough to make her relax a little.

"Hey," he says, pulling back. "Everything's gonna be fine, okay?"

She smiles weakly and nods. Before he can offer any further comfort, there's a clang somewhere down the hall, and she flinches. She slips out of his grasp and retreats quickly to the corner.

"What was that?" he asks, moving closer to the door. Leaning against the bars, he can see that there are five other cells—one on each side and three across the hall—all of them empty. They're the only prisoners here.

"The guard," Jemma whispers. "He comes on a regular schedule."

If the way she's cowering in the corner again is any indication, this guard is the person—or one of the people—who hurt her. Grant silently resolves to inflict as much damage as he can when he subdues the man. He's done his best to avoid letting Jemma see him kill anyone—she's not in favor of violence, and it might make her trust him less—but he'll make an exception in this case.

He can hear footsteps approaching, and it's not long before the guard comes into view. Looking at him, the word average comes to mind. He's of average height and average build, with dull brown hair and a face that's neither attractive nor _un_attractive. This is a man whose job is to be forgettable.

It's not what he was expecting of a man who sends Jemma scurrying to hide in a corner, but whatever. Looks can be deceiving, as well he knows.

The guard's pace falters upon seeing Grant standing right at the door to the cell.

"Uh…"

"Hey," he says. "Come here."

It probably won't work—prisoner holding 101, keep out of reach of the cells—but it's always best to give the easiest solution a shot, because sometimes you get lucky.

…Like this time. The guard walks right up to the bars, looking curious and entirely unconcerned. What kind of half-assed training does this idiot have? Grant is honestly a little embarrassed on their captors' behalves.

"Yeah?" he says.

Grant waits until he's sure the man is in reach, then strikes. He grabs the guard by the front of his shirt and pulls him forward, hard, causing his forehead to bounce against the bars. Then, while the man is dazed, Grant grips his shoulder and spins him around so that his back is pressed to the door. He grabs the man's head—one hand under his jaw, one on the back of his skull—and gives a sharp, violent twist.

Breaking someone's neck isn't as easy, or as deadly, as television would have people believe, but killing people is literally Grant's job. The guard dies instantly.

It's unfortunately quick, and far better than the man deserves, but he can't afford to screw around. They need to get out of here before anyone can raise the alarm. Grant drops the body to the ground, and then kneels to search it for keys to their cell. Patting him down isn't easy with the bars in the way, but he manages, and it's only a few seconds before he finds the keys. He also finds and takes the man's gun—a Smith &amp; Wesson M&amp;P, fully loaded. Good.

He stands, tucking the gun in his waistband, and turns to face Jemma. She's shrunk back against the wall, left hand pressed over her mouth, her eyes filled with tears. Shit.

"Jemma," he says quietly. "We have to go."

She doesn't move.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," he continues. "You know I wouldn't do it if I had another choice."

She gives a little sob, barely muffled by her hand, and he takes a deep breath. They really don't have time for this. He doesn't see any cameras, but that doesn't mean the cell isn't being monitored, and even if it's not, the guard is going to be missed eventually. This is their best chance for escape, and he can't afford to let it slip away because Jemma's a soft touch.

"Jemma," he says, keeping his tone quiet and patient by sheer force of will. "I'm sorry, but we don't have time for you to freak out. We need to get out of here."

He holds out a hand to her and waits. After a long moment, in which Grant begins to calculate his chances of getting them both out of here alive if he has to carry her, she removes her hand from her mouth and steps out of the corner. The cell isn't that big; another six steps and she's placing her shaking hand in his steady one.

He gives it a little squeeze and laces their fingers together.

"Stay behind me," he warns. "And we'll be just fine, okay?"

She nods.

He unlocks the door and opens it, wincing a little at the creak it lets out. He pauses to listen for any sign of approaching guards, but there's nothing.

"Okay," he whispers. "Come on."

He tugs Jemma out of the cell. She squeezes her eyes shut as she steps over the guard's body, and he resists the urge to apologize again. It really was the only viable option, but wow. She is going to be _really_ traumatized by this whole experience.

Not that that affects _him_ at all. No. Their relationship is just a con, a way for him to humanize himself to the team and gain the trust of two of SHIELD's brightest. He doesn't feel anything for her at all. He _doesn't_.

A quick look up and down the hallway proves that there's a door at the right end and a wall at the left. Right it is, then. He leads Jemma down the hall towards the door, all of his senses on alert for any signs of company.

There aren't any. Even as they go through the door (locked, but one of the keys he took from the guard works) and enter the main part of the compound—a generous term; it looks like they're in a large, abandoned warehouse—there's no sign of movement.

It makes him uneasy.

Keeping close to the wall, they head for the door on the far side. He can see light shining through a broken window in the door, so he's assuming it leads to the outside. He grows tenser with every step; someone should have noticed the dead guard by now. Jemma said he showed up on a regular schedule, which suggests a rotation, and it really shouldn't take long to check on two prisoners.

And where is everyone? Where are all of the other guards? Someone brought Grant in and knocked him out with a pipe, and it _wasn't_ the half-trained dumbass he just killed—the guy walked _right up to the bars_, for crying out loud. Anyone stupid enough to put himself inside a specialist's reach like that is _not_ good enough to take one down.

They make it all the way to the door, and now he's really concerned. He glances out the window; there's an SUV parked just outside, but it's not running and there's no sign of movement around it.

What the hell is going on?

He looks down at Jemma and pulls his hand from hers.

"Stay here," he orders, and waits for her nod.

He pulls the gun out of his waistband and cocks it, then opens the door. It's not locked, which makes him even tenser. All of his instincts are screaming at him that something is very, very wrong here. That, combined with the way his head is still pounding, has him very much on edge.

He does a quick sweep of the SUV and the surrounding area. There are two sets of footprints leading from the SUV to the warehouse. One might belong to the guard—the size is right—but that leaves one person unaccounted for.

There's no one in sight.

He looks thoughtfully at the SUV, then pulls the guard's key ring out of his pocket. Sure enough, there's a car key on the ring, and when he tests it on the SUV's door, it works.

This is all way too easy, and almost definitely a trap. But Jemma needs medical attention, and by the looks of it, they're a long way from any hospitals. And they're a lot more likely to escape any trap that's been set in a vehicle than on foot.

So he turns and motions for Jemma, who's still lingering just inside the door to the warehouse, to join him. She hesitates, darting a look around, then does so.

"Your chariot," he teases gently, hoping to reassure her. She's still shaking and pale, and while some of that is probably blood loss, he knows she's scared out of her mind.

She swallows, taking in the SUV. "Are you well enough to drive?"

"What?"

"Your head is still…" she breaks off, gesturing vaguely.

He lifts a hand to his temple, where the pain is concentrated, and it comes away wet. He's still bleeding. And he still doesn't remember how he got here or exactly where he was before being in that cell. He's got a concussion for sure. He probably _shouldn't_ be driving.

But Jemma's in a lot worse shape than he is, and they don't have time to hang around. The person those other footprints belong to might be back any minute.

"Yeah," he says. "I'm good."

He helps her into the passenger seat—she's almost definitely got at least one broken rib, judging by the way she favors her right side as she climbs into the SUV—and then circles around to the driver's side. He checks again for any sign of a trap, but there are no pressure plates or wires or any indication that this is anything but a normal SUV.

So he gets in, buckles his seatbelt, and starts it up.

The GPS blinks on, informing them that they're on an unlisted road, and he pulls away from the warehouse.

"Can you mess with that?" he asks Jemma, indicating the nav screen. "Find out where the nearest town is."

Jemma pokes at it for a few moments, while he keeps his eyes focused on the road. 'Road' here meaning dirt and gravel path cutting through shrubs and brush.

"Wickenburg," she announces after a moment.

He's never heard of it. "Wickenburg?"

"Arizona," she adds helpfully.

They're in _Arizona_?

"How the hell did we get to Arizona from Miami?" he demands.

"Wickenburg is fifteen miles northeast of here," Jemma says, ignoring the question. "We're approaching highway 60. Turn right when you reach it, and it should lead us straight into the center of town."

"Great," he says.

First things first, once they get to Wickenburg, he'll find a phone. The team is sure to be looking for them, and he needs to know how close they are. He'd prefer to avoid taking Jemma to a local hospital, if he can; chances are, whoever was keeping them is based out of Wickenburg, and when they realize their prisoners have escaped, the hospital is the first place they'll look.

Hopefully the team is close enough to their current location that they can just wait for the Bus to arrive and take them to the nearest SHIELD base.

He taps his fingers on the steering wheel as he turns off of the dirt path and onto the highway. If only that guard had had a cell phone on him—wait.

"Hey, is there anything in the glove box?" he asks. "Like, say, a cell phone?"

Jemma leans forward and digs through it, one-handed. He really should have taken the time to at least work up a splint for her broken arm; that's really got to be bothering her. And the fact that it didn't occur to him until just now probably means that his concussion is interfering with his judgment. Not good.

"No," she says, sitting back. "I'm afraid not."

"Oh, well," he says. "It was worth a shot."

They drive in silence for a few minutes. Just as they're passing a sign informing them that they're ten miles from Wickenburg, Jemma makes a choked little noise.

"Pull over," she says.

He really doesn't want to stop when they're still so close to the warehouse. He hesitates.

"Pull over," she repeats, more insistently. "_Now_."

Well that doesn't sound good. Concerned, he pulls off to the right shoulder. The car hasn't even come to a complete stop when Jemma opens the door and scrambles out. He swears and puts it in park, then unbuckles his seatbelt and gets out, circling around the front of the car to join her.

After the way she threw herself out of the car, he expects to find her retching into the shrubs or something. Instead, he finds her just standing there. As soon as he fully rounds the hood, she turns to face him, aiming an ICER at his chest.

Okay. This is new.

"Jemma," he says carefully. "What are you doing?"

"You asked if there was a mobile in the glove box," she says. "Not if there were any weapons."

"True," he agrees. "But that's not really what I meant when I asked what you were doing."

Is it possible that he's hallucinating? Because of all the people that he would expect to work through the pain of a broken arm in order to point an ICER at him, his girlfriend is not one of them. And he _does_ have a head injury, so…

Jemma swallows. "Your head injury is a little worse than you think it is, Ward."

He straightens a little. It's been months since she called him by his last name. Maybe it's strange of him to be more concerned with that than with the fact that she's pointing a gun at him, but…The ICERs are non-fatal. Her sudden change of attitude is more worrying than the possibility of taking a brief nap.

"What do you mean?" he asks, once the rest of her sentence processes. What does his head injury have to do with her pointing an ICER at him?

"It's been eight months since Miami," she says. "A lot's happened."

"Oh, yeah?" he asks, careful not to show his surprise. Eight _months_? He takes a slow step closer to her, and she flinches back, her grip on the ICER tightening. "Like what? Bad break-up?"

Jemma laughs, a little hysterically. "Oh, you could say that."

He's still got the gun he took from the guard. Jemma's injured and weak from four days without food. He's got a foot and ten years of training on her. There are about a thousand ways he could end this situation right now.

But not without causing her pain, and that has him hesitating. He will if he has to, of course, but he doesn't want to. He'll try talking her down first, before moving to more violent solutions.

…He's never hesitated like this before. It's time to face facts: his feelings for her are real. They may have started as a con, as pure strategy, but somewhere along the line he actually started to care about her. Which makes the fact that she's currently pointing an ICER at him all the more concerning.

"Jemma," he says, voice deliberately calm. "I don't know what you're talking about. You want to fill me in here?"

"A lot's happened," she repeats. "But for the purposes of this conversation, there's really only one thing you need to know."

"And what's that?" he asks.

"Fitz is in a coma," she says. Her voice is steady, but there are tears sliding down her face. "And you're the one who put him there."

_What_?

"Hail _this_," she spits, and then she pulls the trigger.


	18. the right decision (2x01 tag)

a/n: my immediate response to the premiere. **contains spoilers for episode 2x01**

* * *

She leaves after the third time she has to save Ward's life.

She's called down to the cell in the middle of the night, because he's managed to get his hands on yet _another_ method of slitting his wrists—it's amazing, just how many things a (former) specialist can turn into a weapon—and they need her to save him.

For just a moment, looking down at Ward, dying in this cell but still held down so he doesn't attempt to attack her whilst she tries to save him, she considers doing nothing. It's just a moment—not even a second, not even _half_ of a second—but she thinks about letting him bleed out.

Fitz isn't doing well. He's alive, but the damage to his temporal lobe was severe, and it's left him very much changed. He's forgetful and easily angered and he struggles with things which once were child's play for him, and it tears her apart to see him this way.

Tonight, for the third time, she's being asked to save the life of the man who put Fitz in his current condition, and for less than half a second, she thinks about refusing.

Then she pushes it aside, gets to work, and saves his life, because that's who she is and what she does. But she doesn't forget it.

Jemma saves lives. That's what she does. It's her role on the team, the closest thing that the greatly reduced SHIELD has to a medic—aside from Trip, who of course is busy with field work. It's her job to stitch wounds and set broken bones and perform the occasional surgery. She fixes people when they need it, whether they deserve it or not.

But she can't fix Fitz. The brain is a delicate thing, and there's still so much they don't _know_ about it, and in any case, she's not a neurologist. There's nothing she can do to help Fitz, aside from advise patience, and that's no help at all.

She's not a neurologist. She's not a surgeon. She's not a cardiologist or an ophthalmologist or an anesthesiologist. She's also not a _saint_.

What she is is tired. It's been months since her world fell apart, and it's showing no signs of repairing itself. They're trying to fix it, but it's like trying to hold back the tide with a broom—frustrating and pointless and completely idiotic. They have no resources and no allies and no _hope_, not anymore. Is it worth clinging to SHIELD, to the remnants of what they _believed_ SHIELD was, rather than just joining some other organization?

Interpol would do. The WHO, if she wants to keep pretending to be _that_ sort of doctor. MI-6, or the CIA, or the FBI, or _anything_ other than this sad basement full of sad people.

She's stuck it out this long, for Fitz and Skye and everything she believes is right, but everyone has a limit, and she thinks she's reached hers.

Jemma knows right from wrong. Letting a man die because she doesn't like him? That's wrong. And just because she didn't actually do it doesn't make the fact that she _considered_ it any less horrifying. She needs to get out of here, away from all of this, before it breaks her completely. Before she starts saying things like _acceptable losses_ and _necessary evils_. She needs to get away before she actually reaches the point where she lets _anyone_ die, even a man who has done wrong to her and all of the people she loves.

She needs to get away.

She tries to talk herself out of it. Fitz needs her, she thinks—except that's not true. She's _hurting_ Fitz's progress, she knows she is. He's dependent upon her, unwilling to push himself to improve any further when he has her to fill in the gaps for him, to serve as an interpreter between him and the rest of the world. He'll do better, improve faster, if she's not here to act as a crutch.

She's hampering Fitz's recovery and SHIELD is hurting her. The obvious solution, the best thing for everyone, is for Jemma to leave.

So that's what she does. She hugs Fitz and tells him to have patience, he'll get better. (He'll get better without her.) She hugs Skye and wishes her well, tells her to take care of herself and train hard. (She would do well to leave, too, but Jemma knows she won't.) She hugs Trip and thanks him for protecting them. (He disapproves of her decision, but wishes her well despite it.) She says goodbye to May and asks her to look after the rest of them. (Of all the team, she is the most sympathetic.)

To Coulson, she says nothing at all.

She packs her things, returns her lanyard to Agent Koenig, and leaves the Playground with a lighter heart.


	19. Twitter Feud (Celebrity AU)

A/N: anonymous said: "biospecialist celebrity au?"

...it got a little weird. Also, this site messed up the formatting. For better enjoyment, you might wanna view this one on AO3.

* * *

**Jemma Simmons ** simmonsthejem 3h  
" wardfan127: simmonsthejem lol who's your fave character on aos? #askjemma" chloe, hands down.

**Grant Ward** grantward 3h  
simmonsthejem Ahem.

**Jemma Simmons** simmonsthejem 3h  
grantward sorry, darling.

**Grant Ward** grantward 3h  
simmonsthejem Seriously? #traitor

**Jemma Simmons** simmonsthejem 3h  
grantward it's nothing personal! Brett is *okay* of course, but chloe is *adorable*. You understand. #dontbedramatic

**Grant Ward ** grantward 3h  
simmonsthejem No, I don't. #Iwantadivorce

**Jemma Simmons** simmonsthejem 3h  
grantward well, it's true, whether you understand it or not. #wearenotmarried

**Grant Ward** grantward 3h  
simmonsthejem It's like I never knew you at all. #andnowweneverwillbe

**Jemma Simmons** simmonsthejem 2h  
grantward don't be ridiculous! #maybeineverwantedtomarryyou

**Grant Ward** grantward 2h  
simmonsthejem I think we're done here. I expect you to be cleared out by the time I get home. #lastnightsepisodeofsswwasridiculous

**Jemma Simmons** simmonsthejem 2h  
grantward fine, but I'm taking the cat #yourpunsareridiculous #exceptnobecausethatsuggestshumour #theyrejustpathetic #especiallytheonetoday

**Grant Ward** grantward 2h  
simmonsthejem He's MY cat! #takethatback #youlaughed

**Jemma Simmons** simmonsthejem 2h  
grantward yes, but he likes me better. #itwasapitylaugh #packing

**Skye** justskye 2h  
grantward simmonsthejem Stop fighting! #isthismyfault

**Grant Ward** grantward 2h  
justskye I'll deal with YOU later. #yes #youseducedmygirlfriend

**Jemma Simmons** simmonsthejem 2h  
grantward justskye oh, leave her be, you bully. #itisnotherfault #brettisboring

**Grant Ward** grantward 2h  
simmonsthejem I'm not a bully, you're a traitor. #brettisNOTboring

**Jemma Simmons** simmonsthejem 1h  
grantward perhaps bully was a strong word, but so is traitor! #brettisgorgeousbutuninteresting #heneedsbetterplotlines

**Grant Ward** grantward 1h  
simmonsthejem Fine. You're not a traitor. #onthatweagree #areyougoneyet

**Jemma Simmons** simmonsthejem 1h  
grantward thank you. #ihavealotofthings #packingwilltakeforever

**Grant Ward** grantward 1h  
simmonsthejem ….Truce? #youdonthavetopackifyoudontleave

**Jemma Simmons** simmonsthejem 1h  
grantward truce. #goodpoint

**Grant Ward** grantward 1h  
simmonsthejem see you Friday? #missyou

**Jemma Simmons** simmonsthejem 1h  
grantward I'll be here. #missyoutoo #nomoreoverseasfilmingplease

**Michelle Belle** wardfan127 32m  
simmonsthejem oh no! I didn't mean to start a fight. That was all jokes right?

**Jemma Simmons** simmonsthejem 30m  
wardfan127 100%. Well, 99%. That pun really was pathetic. #wedontevenhaveacat

**Grant Ward** grantward 27m  
simmonsthejem Don't start. #youknowyouloveit

**Jemma Simmons** simmonsthejem 26m  
grantward yes, darling. #iloveyou #thepunsarejustabonus

**Grant Ward** grantward 20m  
simmonsthejem :D #loveyoutoo

**Miles Lydon** celebrity411 10m  
Twitter battle between actor grantward and longtime gf, TV scientist simmonsthejem! Are they over? Read about it here: /4JM6QZ

**Skye** justskye 9m  
Oh no you don't. #thanksfortheexcuse

**TMZ** TMZ 5m  
The Rising Tide strikes again! Celebrity411 entirely wiped from the web! /5AXRQU


	20. Breakfast Mix-Up AU

A/N: anonymous said: "•eating in the same diner every morning and the waitress ALWAYS mixes up our orders so why dont we just sit at the same table to save her the trouble. (Except oh my god did the cook just pass the waitress a twenty?) Biospecialist please! :)"

* * *

It's only a few hours after dawn, and Grant Ward is ready to call it a day.

He's getting old, he guesses. Back in his Special Forces days, it wasn't uncommon to be awake for seventy-two and ninety-six hours at a time; a mere twenty-six hours would've felt like a cakewalk. Not so today—he's mentally and physically _exhausted_, not to mention more than a little sore. Tackling the suspect off of that balcony was _not_ a great idea, for all that it was entirely necessary.

He's so exhausted that he almost goes straight home, but in the end, the lure of food is too strong. He's also freaking starving; the last thing he ate was a protein bar, nearly twelve hours ago, and apparently he's also too old for skipping so many meals.

So, instead of going straight to his apartment, he detours to a diner a few blocks away. He doesn't eat out often, but when he does, he comes to The Fridge. It has a lot going for it: it's a clean place, with excellent food, good music played at a reasonable volume, and mostly great service. 'Mostly' great because of one particular snag that happens every time he eats here.

He always, always, always gets the wrong order first. It doesn't matter what he orders, how many times he triple-checks that the waitress has it right, or where he sits—the food he gets is always wrong the first time. It's bizarre on a number of levels: for one thing, the waitress (always the same one, a young woman named Skye) is otherwise so efficient and competent.

For another, it's always the same fellow customer that his order gets mixed up with, every time. It's not like they're physically similar, either—no one should mistake a 5'4 British woman for a man like Grant, and yet.

Usually the order mix-up doesn't bother him that much. It's weird, sure, but it's not like it's a difficult mistake to correct. He'll just hand the plate back to Skye, who is always very apologetic, and then wait for her to bring his actual order.

This morning, however, he's hungry enough that he doesn't want to wait a single second longer than he has to. Nothing he's tried—and he's tried a great many things—has been able to fix the problem of the order mix-up. No matter what, he always gets the order meant for this one woman's table, and she always gets the order meant for his. There's a very obvious and simple solution to the problem.

Share a table.

He's thought of it before, but always decides the convenience doesn't outweigh the awkwardness of sharing a table with a complete stranger. This morning, however, he's just too hungry to care.

So instead of heading to his usual table (the one with sightlines to all the doors and which allows him to sit with his back against the wall—old habits die hard), he drops into the seat across from the woman who always gets his order. She looks up from her tablet in surprise when he sits down, and he gives her an apologetic smile.

"I hope you don't mind," he says. "But I thought we could save a little time this morning."

"I don't mind at all," she says, smiling. "It's certainly one way to solve the problem. Jemma Simmons."

He shakes her offered hand. "Grant Ward. Nice to meet you. You ordered yet?"

"Just my coffee," she says. "However, I was thinking of getting an omelet. Yours looked so good last week, I've been craving one ever since."

"It was pretty good," he admits. "How were your waffles?"

"Delicious, thank you," she smiles. It fades as her eyes move over his face. "I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but you look terrible. Are you all right?"

"Is there a right way to take that?" he wonders, then waves off her apologetic expression. "No, I'm kidding. It's fine. Just been a long day, that's all."

Jemma blinks. "It's barely seven."

"True," he says. "But I haven't been to bed yet, so…"

"Oh, dear," she says. "Do you mind if I ask why?"

Before he can answer, Skye appears at their table, bearing two cups and a carafe of coffee.

"The coffee you ordered," she says, placing one of the cups in front of Jemma. "And, no need to ask what you want, Agent Ward." She places the other cup in front of Grant, puts the carafe in the middle of the table, and then takes a step back, beaming. "So, I didn't realize that you two knew each other! Small world, right?"

Is she seriously going to pretend that she hasn't mixed up their orders every single visit for the last six months?

"So, what can I get you guys?"

Apparently she is.

Well, whatever. He's too hungry to care.

"I'll have the veggie omelet," Jemma says. "No mushrooms, and a side of fruit, please."

"Veggie omelet, hold the fungi, plus fruit," Skye says, scribbling on her order pad. "And you, Agent Ward?"

"Pancakes, two eggs, scrambled, and bacon," he decides. Usually he tends towards healthy breakfasts, but he thinks he's earned the indulgence.

"You got it," she says. "It'll be right out."

"So," Jemma says, picking up the carafe and pouring herself some coffee as Skye walks away. "_Agent_ Ward?"

"Yeah," he says, accepting the carafe once she's done with it. He's probably going to need a few cups of coffee just to stay awake for the drive back to his apartment. "I'm an FBI Agent. Major Crimes Unit."

"Ah," she says. Then she frowns. "Wait, I heard on the radio earlier that the Hall Street Killer was caught early this morning. Was that…?"

"Yeah, that was us," he confirms.

"Hence the long day," she realizes. "Well, thank you for that, then. I'll certainly feel safer going into work today."

"Believe me, it was my pleasure," he says. He takes a sip of his coffee, and then his (exhausted) mind processes the implications of that last sentence. "Wait, were you at risk? Are you a doctor?"

The Hall Street Killer (so named because he had a habit of dumping his victims' bodies on Hall Street) was a serial killer going after those he felt were interfering with the natural order of things: doctors and scientists, mostly. He managed to kill four scientists and ten doctors before the case was brought to Grant's team's attention, and he got another three of each in the five weeks it took them to corner and catch him. It's no surprise the capture was on the radio—twenty people in three months? The case made international news.

"A scientist, actually," she corrects. "I'm a biochemist."

"Really," he says. "And what does a biochemist do, exactly?"

He's learned more science in the past five weeks than he did in twelve years of school, but biochemistry was _not_ one of the disciplines they covered. Mostly because the killer hadn't targeted any biochemists…yet. Grant tries not to give too much thought to how grateful he is for that.

"Oh, all sorts of things," she says. "Personally, I'm employed in biomedical research."

"Trying to find a cure for cancer?" he guesses.

"Amongst other things, yes," she nods. "So, truly, thank you. Things have been very tense in the lab, recently."

"I'm sure they have," he agrees. "And you're welcome. I'm just sorry it took us so long."

"The important thing is that you caught him at all," she says. She looks a little sad, and he wonders if she knew any of the victims. Science, as he's recently learned, is a somewhat close-knit field.

But the Hall Street Killer has entirely consumed Grant's world for the past five weeks, and now that he's finally caught, he's the last thing Grant wants to talk about. So he changes the subject.

"What were you reading?" he asks, nodding at her tablet. "Anything good?"

She laughs. "Actually, yes. It's an e-mail from my lab partner. He's in New York for a conference, and apparently the keynote speech was…crashed."

"Crashed?"

"By a monkey," she clarifies.

"A monkey," he says, disbelieving.

"Mm, yes," she nods. "Apparently it was brought to the conference for use in a demonstration, and it managed to escape. They're very clever, monkeys. It got out of its cage, all the way to the auditorium, and into the lighting booth without being seen. They only caught it because it started playing with the lighting controls."

"Wow," he says, unable to hold back a smile at the mental image. "Sounds like a fun time."

"Quite," she agrees. "Unfortunately, Fitz—my lab partner—has always been enamored of the idea of having a monkey of our own, and I'm afraid this incident has done nothing to discourage him."

"My partner would like nothing more than a pet lion," he tells her. "So you have my complete sympathy."

They spend breakfast trading stories about their respective ridiculous partners, about funny things that have happened at work, and, eventually, a little bit of personal information. He learns that she has two PhDs, that she went to Cambridge, that she's technically an only child but considers Fitz her brother, and that she's lived in America for nearly nine years and loves it, but misses England with surprising intensity.

In return, he tells her about going into the army with the intention of taking advantage of the GI Bill, only to fall in love with the work, about the shoulder injury that got him a medical discharge, and a little about his brother and his sister-in-law, who have three adopted children that keep sending him increasingly despondent emails asking when he's going to visit.

"Emotional blackmail," he calls it, and gets way too much enjoyment out of the way that makes Jemma laugh.

It's the easiest, most comfortable conversation he's had in years. There are no awkward silences, no accidental insults, and he's not at all tempted to make an excuse and bail. Not even once.

They linger long after their plates have been cleared away (by an unusually cheerful Skye). It's only when Grant is unable to contain his yawns that Jemma brings the conversation to a halt.

"You, I think," she says, pulling the carafe away from him before he can pour another cup of coffee. "Are in desperate need of sleep. I shouldn't keep you any longer."

"No," he says. "I'm fi—"

"And thus my point is made," she says as he breaks off in a yawn. "I need to get to work, anyway. Fitz will be insufferable if I'm late."

He stifles another yawn. "Well, we wouldn't want that. I'll let you go, then."

She raises her eyebrows.

"And I'll go too," he adds. "Trust me, you're the only thing keeping me from my bed."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she says at once. "I should have—"

"No," he interrupts, silently cursing himself. "That's not what I—what I meant was…"

"Yes?" she prompts after a moment.

"What I meant was, same time next week?" he asks. He thinks he manages to keep the hopeful tone from his voice, but—considering the way she smiles at him—maybe not.

"Yes," she says. "That would be lovely. I'll be here."

"Great," he says. "Me, too."

"Excellent."

After sitting there and smiling at her dumbly for a moment, he shakes himself and stands.

"Well," he says. "I'd better get home before I fall asleep right here. See you next week?"

"I promise," she says. "Sleep well, Grant."

"Have a nice day, Jemma," he says.

As he walks towards the door, movement near the kitchen catches his eye. He glances over just in time to see Skye slipping something into her pocket while the cook, for lack of a better word, pouts.

Did she….?

No, he decides. No way. Not possible.

Is it?


	21. One Thing That Never Happened (Happy Ed)

A/N: anonymous said: "Prompt: one HAPPY thing that never happened in your biospecialist soulmate au. :D"

* * *

Grant Ward is confused.

He's been here at the secure unit for nearly two weeks now, and the only visitors he's had have been from the state: police officers, his public defenders, and, once, a rep from child services (who was called out of the interview halfway through and never came back). Now, he's got some complete stranger, apparently an old friend of the Quartermaster at his military school, talking about his 'crime' in a tone that's almost approving.

He also complimented Grant's skills, which is half the reason Grant's still listening—during his time at the military academy (which he hated then, but now remembers fondly) he got used to being praised. Here, he's just another criminal. He doesn't like it at all.

"I'm here to make you a one-time offer, so listen up," John Garrett says. "Your family's lawyer's gonna be here in about twenty minutes. Not only are your folks pressing charges against you for arson and attempted murder, but your older brother's petitioning the court to have you tried as an adult."

Grant swallows. It's not a surprise, not really, but…

"Now," Garrett continues. "You can spend the next few years locked up in a cage, blaming Mommy and Daddy and mean older brother for your problems, or…you can let me get you out of here and teach you how to be a man."

Well. That sounds…creepy.

"What are you talking about?" he asks.

"I represent a secret organization," Garrett says. "You ever heard of SHIELD?"

"Of course," he says. _Everyone_ has heard of SHIELD.

"Well, I'm a recruiter for the SHIELD Operations Academy," Garrett tells him. "And I think you're a perfect candidate."

"…Even though I'm a criminal?" he has to ask.

"Hah," Garrett scoffs. "A little arson and attempted murder? That's nothing, kid. Our best agent is an ex-Soviet assassin. You've got a long way to go before SHIELD considers you a _criminal_."

"I think the state of Massachusetts would disagree with you, sir," he says.

"True," Garrett says. "But we can take care of that, no problem."

Grant tries not to get his hopes up. This is sounding a little _too_ good.

"What's the catch?" he asks.

"No catch," Garrett says. "Just a deal. You sign a contract with SHIELD: five years of service. In return, we make this whole incident go away. Once your contract's up, you can either renew it as a full agent—I'm thinking specialist; you've got the right kind of potential—or you go on your merry way, with a glowing recommendation and no criminal record."

"Five years," Grant says.

"That's all," Garrett promises.

It's still sounding too good.

"Five years would make me twenty-one," he points out. "SHIELD employs a lot of teenagers, does it?"

"You're quick," Garrett grins. "I like that. It's true, SHIELD's not in the habit of sending minors into the field. A few, sure, but those were…special circumstances. No, what's gonna happen is this. You'll go to the Operations Academy and stay there 'til you're eighteen. When you arrive, you'll be assessed, and the Academy will decide which track to put you on. Like I said, I'm thinking specialist. If you _do_ take the specialist track, then you only need one year of classes at the Academy."

"Really," Grant says.

"Really," Garrett nods. "Specialists prefer on-the-job training. Call it a little quirk. You get one year to learn the rules and regs, get basic training out of the way, and then you'll be assigned an SO—a Supervising Officer—to train you in the field. So, if you become a specialist, you'll have one year at the Academy and four in the field."

"And if I don't?" he asks.

"If you don't become a specialist, you'll be a field agent," Garrett says. "That's two years in the Academy and, probably, two years at a desk somewhere. You may never make it into actual field at all, to be honest. Field agents are a dime a dozen, and rookies get the worst postings. By the time you reach Level Three, your contract will be up."

_That_ sounds horrible, although not as bad as prison.

"What does a specialist do, exactly?" he asks.

"All kinds of things," Garrett shrugs. "Elimination. Infiltration. Protection. A _lot_ of undercover work. Specialists go in and get the job done, whatever the job is. One week you might go undercover to bring down a ring of gun runners, and the next you'll be acting as a bodyguard for an important asset. It varies."

Okay, that sounds pretty cool. Grant's tempted. Honestly, he's more than tempted.

"I'm not gonna lie to you, son," Garrett says. "It's hard work. More cadets wash out of the Ops Academy than any other Academy. Training is intense and horrible, and you're going to hate every minute of it. Especially if you take the specialist track—you'll be cursing my name by the second day. But it's worth it. And you could make something of yourself at SHIELD. You really could."

Grant looks down at his hands, thinking hard. It sounds dangerous, and difficult, and the fact that he's being recruited out of juvie says a lot about what kind of people he's going to be working with. But…

His eyes catch on his timer, still counting down, fourteen years to go.

Which would his soulmate prefer? An ex-con? Or a SHIELD agent?

Whoever she is, he wants her to be proud of him. He's never done anything to be proud of, not really. But at SHIELD, he could do plenty. He could _help_ people. Protection—stopping dangerous criminals from hurting people. He could make something of himself.

He hated military school because he was so far away from Ashton, unable to protect him (and look how that turned out). He enjoyed the physical components of it, and the structure—more than enjoyed, really. Loved. SHIELD would have that, he thinks. SHIELD could be everything he wants. He'll be away from Ashton either way.

A chance to make something of himself. A chance to continue the training he started at military school. A chance to make his soulmate proud.

"Okay," he says, looking up at Garrett. "Where do I sign?"

Fifteen years later, he's happy. The Academy was just as difficult as advertised, but he stayed at the top of his class the whole time. He's one of SHIELD's best specialists, often compared to Romanoff in the area of espionage, and has saved literally thousands of lives. He has a family—in SHIELD as a whole, and in Garrett, who's long since become a father to him—and even friends.

There's only one thing missing: his soulmate.

He had to lose his timer to become a specialist, and it tears at him even now, all these years later. He was promised—by Garrett, by his instructors, by the agent that performed the removal—that his soulmate's timer will still work, that he'll know her when he meets her, that the timer is just a countdown and doesn't control the bond, but…

He worries.

He knows he's supposed to meet his soulmate sometime this year. He's long since forgotten the exact time that was on it when it was removed—and he still curses himself for not writing it down, something that only occurred to him a few months later—but he remembers doing the math as a kid, and the math said he'd be thirty when he met her.

He's thirty now.

Of course, the whole _happiness_ thing refers to his overall state. He's not always happy. He has bad days, everyone does. And occasionally, he gets orders that piss him off.

Like now.

He's been assigned to a mobile response team. He argued against it as hard as he could—he goes in, he gets the job done, and he does it alone; he doesn't want to be responsible for the safety of a whole team, especially when half of the team in question didn't even pass their field assessments—but he was overruled. Even making appeals to Garrett didn't get him out of it.

So, here he is, reporting to the plane that's about to become his home for the foreseeable future.

He was ordered to report to FitzSimmons (which even he knows refers to SciTech's two most famous agents, Leo Fitz and Jemma Simmons) to get his comm receiver encoded, and when he immediately comes across a man and a woman bickering outside of the lab in the plane's cargo bay, he figures he's in the right place.

He waits for a few minutes, but neither of them notices him. Not a good sign—he's responsible for their protection, and it looks like he's got his work cut out for him, if they don't even notice a heavily-armed specialist standing a few feet away. He doesn't have all day, here, so he drops his duffle to get their attention.

"FitzSimmons?" he asks.

There's a very brief introduction—and he really hopes they don't do that back and forth thing all the time; it seems like it would get old _very_ quickly—before Fitz breaks his comm receiver and Simmons comes at him with a swab.

He has to hand it to her; it takes a lot of nerve to just walk up to a specialist and shove your hand in his mouth. That, or complete ignorance of boundaries.

He has a feeling it's the latter.

Simmons finally makes eye contact as she draws away from him, and her voice trails off in the middle of her sentence. He has no guess as to what she was going to say next (not that he understood a word of what she's said so far), because he feels like he's just been punched in the chest. Except not in a painful way.

He's suddenly imbued with warmth, radiating out from his sternum and filling his whole body, soothing away the lingering aches from his fight with those men in Paris. All of his irritation over this assignment, the tension that comes with meeting new people (SHIELD's done a lot for his people skills, but it can't work miracles), and even his worry about Garrett's declining health—all of it suddenly disappears in the wake of this new warmth. He's never felt anything like it before, but he can venture a guess.

He's thirty years old.

He vaguely hears a strange chiming noise and registers that Fitz is swearing, but it doesn't seem important. His entire world has narrowed to the woman in front of him.

"Hi," she says, a little faintly.

"Hi," he echoes. He feels like he's moving underwater as he reaches out and takes her right arm, still slightly raised, and turns it over to view her wrist. Her timer is green, cheerfully blinking the date and time at him. He's thirty years old, and he's found his soulmate.

She's his soulmate. Jemma Simmons—genius prodigy, holder of two PhDs, widely regarded as one of the brightest minds to ever work for SHIELD—is his soulmate. After all of this time, he's finally found her.

Wow.

(And then they get married and live happily ever after, because the thing that never happened was Garrett turning to HYDRA. When SHIELD falls, they both wisely retire to the private sector—Grant to Interpol, Jemma to the IUBMB. They have three children. Garrett and Coulson become locked in a bitter struggle for title of favorite grandfather, much to Jemma's father's bemusement. Skye is the favorite aunt. Trip and Fitz are happy with their respective roles as cool uncle and super smart uncle. No one calls May grandma—to her face. They're all happy and absolutely _nobody_ gets dropped out of the Bus. The end.)


	22. MayWardSimmons AU

A/N: darkangelcryo said: "Could you write a Ward/May/Simmons fic?"

* * *

It starts because Jemma still has nightmares about falling, and Grant feels responsible for her.

It's been said that the life you save is a life that belongs to you. Grant's never bought into that, but he can't deny that ever since he dived out of the Bus to save her life, he's felt a sort of connection to Jemma. Before, she was just one more person he had to protect—an asset to the team but a liability in the field, just like Fitz and Skye.

After, she's more, like the hour they spent treading water in the Atlantic made him care about her in a way he doesn't care about the others. He finds himself offering comfort when she's scared in London and Norway, holding back some of his rage from her in Spain, and the scream she lets out when he's searching the Bus for a ghost hits him straight to the gut.

He feels responsible for her.

Melinda feels responsible for all of them.

So when they leave their hotel room at two in the morning (they're out of condoms, which is just poor planning on his part, but in his defense it's been a really long three days searching for Coulson) and find her at the bar, staring into an untouched glass of scotch like it holds the secrets of the universe, there's really no question of what to do.

They usher Jemma back to their room, and there's no sex that night—because a threesome with two teammates isn't the kind of thing someone just jumps into—but they spend hours talking and drinking. Jemma does most of the talking, of course (they get her started on the potential medical applications of the Centipede device, then just sit back and smile), but they do some sharing, too. The important part is that no one is alone, and when Jemma confesses, very quietly, that she can't stop dreaming of the ground rushing up to meet her, they don't laugh.

Grant's drunk enough, at this point, to tell her about the nightmares he suffered in his first year of specialist work, how he had to train himself out of waking with a shout, because a nightmare of what happened in Berlin got him captured in Madripoor, and that turned into a nightmare of its own. Melinda says nothing of her own nightmares, but she does offer quiet suggestions of things to try before going to sleep to stave them off, and that speaks for itself.

They fall asleep sometime after dawn, all three of them on the bed, Jemma nestled safely between Grant and Melinda, and the weirdest part of the whole thing is how not awkward it is in the morning. (Well, late afternoon, technically, but that's okay—they've got nowhere to be.)

Jemma thanks them and excuses herself, saying that Fitz will be looking for her, and once she's gone Grant turns to Melinda expectantly.

"Could get messy," she says, but she's smiling, just a little.

"I thought you liked messy," he says. He's smiling, too.

This thing between them started as a way to hold off their respective demons, but it's softened into something real, something like affection. The demons are still there, though, lurking beneath the easy smiles and playful touches, because there's a lot of darkness in both of them, and neither one has much skill at chasing it away.

Jemma is nothing but light—enthusiasm and glee and optimism, wrapped up in a brilliant and beautiful package. She could be good for them, Grant thinks, help chase away the shadows that every specialist carries. She did it well enough last night, made even Melinda laugh out loud twice, and focusing on _her_ nightmares kept his mind off the rage that still lingers in his chest.

And she was smiling when she left, so they must have helped her, too. They can protect her, from real danger and from the mental effects of it—help her learn to deal with what all of those years in a lab never prepared her for.

It could get messy. But it could be good, too.

Melinda raises an eyebrow, but her smile is knowing. "Well?"

"Yeah," he says. "It's worth it."

x

They start small, of course. Grant starts hanging around the lab a little more often. He keeps Jemma company in the early morning, before Fitz gets up, and makes himself useful during the day, fetching and carrying things so Jemma doesn't have to.

Melinda, on the other hand, always seems to know exactly when Jemma will venture up to the cabin for a break, and makes sure to position herself to encounter her every time. Sometimes in the kitchen, where she offers to share her lunch, and sometimes in the lounge, where she wordlessly invites Jemma to join her in watching a movie.

And they both make sure to touch her as often as possible. Nothing major, of course, nothing that might scare her off, just casual contact—Grant makes sure to brush his hand against hers when he hands her a requested scanner, Melinda sits a little closer than she needs to on the couch, that sort of thing. It's meant to get her thinking (something she is so very, very good at). Neither of them is the most approachable of people, as well they know, and it will probably take some time before she even starts considering the idea.

It takes a few weeks, but eventually Jemma starts seeking them out. Sitting next to them at meals, joining Melinda in the cockpit after a nightmare, lingering in the cargo bay while Grant is training—all small things, in the grand scheme, but they're encouraging signs.

In response, Grant and Melinda step things up a little. They let their casual touches linger, let her catch them looking at her, let their excuses for spending time with her become weaker and weaker, until they stop offering excuses all together.

Slowly, but surely, she draws closer to them. And eventually, nearly two months after that night in California, their hard work pays off.

They've just finished up a case in New Zealand, investigating reports of a possible alien sighting that turned out to be a misunderstanding involving Lord of the Rings fanatics and a very drunken farmer. It takes all of four hours to clear up, and Coulson solemnly declares it too late to fly home and books them all hotel rooms. (It's three in the afternoon.)

Skye and Fitz disappear immediately, promising to be back before they leave in the morning, and Coulson volunteers to stay with the Bus. Grant and Melinda have barely set their overnight bags down in Grant's room when there's a knock at the door.

It's Jemma.

"Agent Ward," she says pleasantly. "Do you have a moment?"

He steps back in wordless invitation, and she walks past him, into the room. When he turns around after closing the door, Jemma is standing in next to the bed, arms crossed.

"Agent May, Agent Ward," she says. "Am I correct in assuming that the two of you have been attempting to seduce me?"

It takes all of his training to keep a straight face. "Would that be a problem?"

"Well, that depends," she frowns. She looks between the two of them, studying them like they're part of one of her experiments, and Grant keeps his face blank. He has no idea what she's looking for, and he doesn't want to show her the wrong thing.

"On?" Melinda asks.

"On what you mean by it."

They've talked about this, a little, and Melinda gives Grant a nod.

"That's up to you," he tells Jemma seriously. He takes a step closer to her and takes it as a good sign that she doesn't step back. "You just want one night, that's fine. We're all consenting adults, here. We'll have our fun and you can go on your way, no harm done."

"But?" she prompts.

"But we'd like more," Melinda says. She steps closer, too. "If you'll give it."

Jemma takes a deep breath and uncrosses her arms. She closes the remaining distance between herself and Melinda and kisses her, quickly and decisively. Melinda holds still as she returns it, obviously trying not to spook her, and she's rewarded by a second kiss—slower, more intent.

Grant holds his breath as he watches, takes in the way Jemma's hands slide into Melinda's hair, the gentle way Melinda cups Jemma's face. It might just be the hottest thing he's ever seen, and it's got nothing to do with two women kissing and everything to do with Melinda and Jemma.

Jemma's breathing hard when she pulls away from Melinda, but she doesn't hesitate in walking right up to Grant and going on her toes. He bends down to meet her, puts his hands on her waist to help her balance, and matches his pace to hers. It's hard to resist the temptation to increase it, to deepen it, to walk her to the bed and _show_ her why this is a good idea, but he does. After nearly two months of _wanting_, he's nearly desperate, but pushing her won't do anything but scare her off.

So he doesn't chase her when she pulls away, just lets go of her and lets her step back, even though all he wants is to pull her closer.

"One night," she decides. "If you want any more than that…"

"Yes?" he asks when she trails off.

She grins at him, playful with a touch of smug—not a smile he's ever seen from her before, and it sends heat sliding through his veins.

"You'll have to be very, very convincing."

Grant and Melinda exchange smug smiles of their own.

"Oh," he says. "I think we can manage that."


	23. still the right decision (2x02 tag)

A/N: This has absolutely nothing to do with the episode or next week's promo. Just a little something that was sparked by Trip and Skye's attitudes towards Jemma.

* * *

Jemma leaves SHIELD for the last time four days after she returns from her temporary break.

It's the stares, mostly. The accusation she sees in every face, the silent 'how could you abandon us?' only outweighed by the 'how could you abandon _Fitz_?' As though she has no right to her own life, no right to see to her _own_ well-being. As though she has some lingering, life-long commitment to SHIELD, a bond she can't break, even when SHIELD itself is nothing but rubble.

She could bear the betrayal she sees in every face if she thought she deserved it. If she truly had betrayed them, she would accept it—accept the lack of trust and the pointed silences and the way they turn their backs whenever she enters a room—as her due punishment, and suffer through it.

But she _doesn't_ deserve it. She had her reasons for leaving, and they were good ones, and she stands by them. If she had to do it all again, she would.

With one small exception: she wouldn't have left Fitz behind.

She thought he would be better off without her, and she does still believe that. However, she left under the assumption that the others would take care of him. She thought she could trust her team to see to Fitz in her absence, to make certain that he had everything he needed for his recovery to continue. She did _not_ expect them to—to _plunk_ him in the lab and _leave him there_. She didn't expect that he would be left to talk to himself and struggle alone.

She didn't betray the team, but the team most certainly betrayed Fitz.

So she leaves. She talks to Fitz about it, determines that he's not particularly attached to the idea of SHIELD anymore, either, and packs their things. She doesn't say goodbye to anyone, simply leaves their lanyards on a lab table and ushers Fitz out while the rest of the team is away and Coulson is locked in his office.

Fitz understands why she left, of course—when he remembers that she did at all. Apparently he's spent the past few months speaking to a hallucination of her, and if she didn't know how useless it would be, she would certainly be having words with the others over _that_. All he says is that he's glad she's back, and could they stop for dinner soon, please?

There's a lab waiting for them at Stark Industries. Tony Stark was glad to offer it, has apparently read through all of their research—publicized in the wake of SHIELD's fall, of course—and is all too happy to accept them as employees of his science division. Even her halting explanation of Fitz's state didn't make a dent in his enthusiasm; all he did was make pointed reference to the employee health benefits, which include the assistance of Stark Medical.

SHIELD is nothing, now. Just a few people in a basement, trying to fight the good fight and mostly failing. They can do good—_real_ good—at Stark Industries. They can help people from the safety of a lab, where there will be no viruses and no war-zones and no tiny little boxes at the bottom of the ocean.

They can do good, but more importantly, they can be happy. They _deserve_ to be happy. She sees that now.

And if the others can't? Well, it's no concern of hers.


	24. HYDRA AU (1x19)

A/N: anonymous said: "can you do a Hydra Biospecialist AU? since the promo for next weeks episode it makes me want more fics of that."

* * *

When he finally arrives at the base, Skye brings Ward straight to Jemma.

"He's got broken ribs, Simmons," she reports, expression a mix of exasperation and concern. "Not to mention his face."

"Hey," he says mildly. "There's nothing wrong with my face."

"There's certainly something wrong with your head, however," Jemma says, a little sharply. "Take a seat, Agent Ward. Shirt off, if you please. The rest of you, out."

"Simmons," Coulson starts.

"I can't work with all of you _hovering_, sir," she says. "As you may recall, I am _not_ a medical doctor. I don't want to risk missing potentially serious injuries because I'm distracted by you lot fussing over him. He can give you his report as soon as I'm done with him."

They take a bit more convincing, but eventually the rest of the team files out, leaving Ward and Jemma alone in the Bus' lab. She watches them go, making certain that all five of them leave the Bus entirely, heading out of the hangar and back into the main base. Then she turns to frown at Ward.

"Well?" she asks expectantly.

"Right," he says. He strips off his jacket and his shirt, then takes a seat on the stool she indicates.

She sighs a little at the bruises forming on his torso. They stand in distinct and unfavorable contrast to the bruises that are already present—nearly-healed lovebites that she left on him what seems like years ago, before she left for the Hub and he went after Nash and their world fell apart.

"It's not as bad as it looks," he tells her.

"I'll be the judge of that, thank you," she says. She fetches the portable x-ray machine and turns it on, keeps her eyes on it as she tries not to voice the obvious question.

He answers it anyway. "Time's up, Jem."

She sighs, holding the x-ray scanner up to his torso. As she expected from the bruising pattern, he has two cracked ribs. That's unfortunate. She sets the scanner aside and fetches the elastic bandages. It's not technically a good idea to wrap broken ribs—it restricts breathing and puts the patient at risk of pneumonia—but he'll need the support, just in case.

"Arms out," she directs him. She wraps the bandage snugly around his torso and keeps her eyes on her work. "I've been called in, then?"

"SHIELD is done," he says. His tone is gentle, apologetic even. He knows this won't be easy for her. "You'll be of more use elsewhere."

Even here, alone in the lab, he won't speak Garrett's name, or HYDRA's. He won't risk it.

"Working on the sample?" she asks. She doesn't know for certain that Garrett took a sample of the GH-325 from the Guest House, but it only makes sense, really. And she would be the logical person to work on it, since she's the only scientist they know for a fact has encountered it. Aside from Fitz who, bless him, is an engineer, not a chemist.

And also not loyal to HYDRA, but that's not really an issue, is it? He's loyal to _her_, above all else, and if she asks him to, he'll abandon these sad remnants of SHIELD in an instant.

(She _won't_ be asking, of course. HYDRA has plenty of engineers, and a reluctant recruit is worse than no recruit at all. It's probably for the best, as much as she'll miss him. He could never be happy working for HYDRA, and she does want him to be happy.)

"Among other things," he agrees.

Finished wrapping his ribs, she starts to step back. He stops her, though, tucking a loose piece of hair behind her ear and tracing the curve of her jaw.

"We'll be fine," he says. "You'll see."

"Of course," she says. "We always are."

He starts to lean forward, obviously intending to kiss her, but she steps out of his reach and tsks at him.

"I'm not finished with you, yet," she scolds. "I still need to treat your face. I do believe that cut is going to scar."

She fetches the first aid kit as he gives her a little smirk.

"But you'll still love me if it does, right?"

"Oh, yes," she murmurs, focused on rummaging through the kit for the antibiotic ointment. "Scars are sexy, you know."

"I know," he says smugly.

She looks up at him, takes in the smirk on his face and the glint in his eyes, and can't resist the urge to set the kit aside and kiss him. She really shouldn't, as there's no telling when the others will grow impatient and return, but she just can't help it.

She's grown fond of the persona he's playing, the stoic and serious and morally upright Agent Grant Ward, but he's not the Grant she fell in love with. She fell in love with the _real_ Grant, sarcastic and mischievous and a little bit smug, and the look he's wearing right now is the closest he's been to that man since this assignment began.

He tries to turn the kiss into something heated, tries to deepen it, but she pulls back before he can.

"There's no time for that," she reminds him. "I still need to see to your face."

He sits back with a sigh and patiently suffers through the rest of his check-up. He has a zygomatic fracture, but there's not much she can do for it, so she simply applies some antibiotic ointment to the cut on his cheek.

"That's all I can do, for now," she says. "I don't suppose there's much chance of you giving your body any time to heal?"

"No," he agrees. "There isn't."

She sighs and returns the first aid kit to its cabinet. "I didn't think so. Time to brief the others, then."

"Yeah," he says. He walks up behind her, wraps his arms around her waist before she can turn away from the counter to face him, and rests his chin on her head. "And after that…it's time to go."

She closes her eyes against the tears she can feel building. She's grown fond of this team, the little family that almost was, with Coulson and May and Skye. Especially Skye. She's never had such a close female friend before, and it will be difficult to leave her.

She can't even _think_ of Fitz. Her friendship with him is entirely genuine, begun long before she was approached by HYDRA, and the idea of leaving him behind is…

Well, she can't think that way. She knew this day would come. Admittedly, she wasn't expecting it to come in such a way, with HYDRA out of the shadows and SHIELD declared a terrorist organization, but no plan survives contact with the enemy, as Grant loves to say.

"We'll be fine," he says again, tightening his grip on her waist. "I'll make sure of it."

It's equal parts promise and threat, and she sighs, turning in his embrace to wrap her arms around him in return.

"Of course we will," she says. "We'll be together."

HYDRA doesn't mean much to her. It never has, not really. She chose to join HYDRA because of the opportunities it offered, the chances it freely granted where SHIELD would deny her. She has no more attachment to HYDRA than she did to SHIELD. It's _people_ she cares about, _people_ who hold her loyalty, and there aren't many of those, either.

She loves and is loyal to Fitz, but he's loyal to Coulson, so she must leave him behind. It's sad, and it tears at her, but it's probably for the best. He could never survive in HYDRA, could never keep his mouth shut against the sheer _incompetence_ so often on display, and she would rather him be far away and happy than close to her and miserable—or, even worse, dead.

She loves and is loyal to Grant, as well. He's loyal to Garrett, but that's all right. She likes Garrett well enough. He tends towards odd moods, sometimes, and occasionally speaks to Grant in a manner she considers unacceptable, but she'll tolerate it, for Grant's sake.

They can be happy together, the two of them, working for Garrett and for HYDRA as a whole. She can do her research without running into roadblocks in the form of SHIELD's pesky compartmentalization habits, and Grant can work alongside Garrett, crossing off their enemies and making the world a safer place for them.

And if HYDRA turns against them, or if Garrett takes his treatment of Grant too far…well, Jemma knows _exactly_ how to deal with _that_.

They'll be happy together. That's what matters.


	25. Mistress of Death AU

A/N: anonymous said: "Biospecialist. Something with Jemma being kidnapped and Grant has to rescue her please?"

(it...went a little weird.)

* * *

"Did you get her?"

"Depends. You got our cash?"

"You've already been paid."

"The price has risen. We want an extra ten million."

"I already _gave_ you forty."

"Yeah, which isn't much, seeing as how we just went up against a woman who controls _Death_. Call it hazard pay."

Ian Quinn sighs. Usually he would never let anyone get away with this kind of extortion—he knows well that if he lets _one_ team of mercenaries raise the price after the job, _every_ mercenary he works with from now on will attempt to do the same. But he's waited so long for this moment. It's been literal _decades_ of searching, of trying to find a way to get his hands on this particular curiosity. He can't let her slip through his fingers, not when this is the closest he's ever been to getting what he wants.

These two were the only mercenaries he's ever found who were willing to go after her. If he sends them away empty handed, he'll be out of luck.

"Fine," he says. He pulls out his phone and quickly authorizes a transfer of ten million euro to the man in front of him.

The mercenary pulls out his own phone, checks it, and then gives him a smirk.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Quinn," he says. He tosses Quinn a key. "She's in unit 307. Good luck."

Quinn doesn't bother to watch the mercenary and his partner leave. He tucks his phone away, takes a deep breath, and heads deeper into the building. It seems like hours before he comes across the storage unit marked 307, but that's probably just the anticipation getting to him. He unlocks the door with shaking hands and pulls it up, then steps into the unit.

He doesn't bother to close the door behind him—aside from him, his guards, and his guest, there's no one else in the building. Even if there were, his guards would take care of them. Said guards take up position in the hallway, leaving Quinn alone in the unit with his guest.

She's…not what he expected. Being tied to a chair doesn't do much for _anyone's_ intimidation factor, true, and neither does being blindfolded (a sensible precaution, for someone who has the power to kill with a single look), but still. She looks…delicate. Small and pale and lovely, with soft brown hair and elegant hands. And does her shirt have tiny _hearts_ on it?

She looks more like a grad student than the fabled Mistress of Death. Still, he knows she's the real deal. He's done his research—decades of it—and he made absolutely certain of her identity before sending those mercenaries to fetch her.

This is it. He takes a deep breath and wills his voice not to shake.

"Hello," he says.

The woman tilts her head. "Hello. Are you the man behind my kidnapping, then?"

Her voice isn't very intimidating, either. He was expecting something tempting and velvety or threatening and hoarse, not a clear British accent and a hint of friendly curiosity.

"I am," he confirms, shaking off his surprise.

"What do you want?" she asks.

"You know what I want."

"Humor me," she says.

"What else would I want, my lady," he asks. "But for you to use your control over life and death on my behalf?"

"Oh, dear," she sighs. "This is awkward."

She sounds honestly embarrassed, and he's getting a very bad feeling.

"What's awkward?" he asks.

"I don't _have_ control over life and death."

No. No, that can't be. After all these years—after fifty million euro—he can't have kidnapped the wrong person. She's lying.

"You _are_ the Mistress of Death, aren't you?" he demands.

"Oh, no, I am," she says. "Absolutely, yes."

Okay. They're having some kind of trouble communicating here, obviously. Why would she lie about her powers but _not_ lie about her identity?

"So, as the Mistress of Death," he says, reaching for patience. "You can kill a person with a single look. You can bring back the dead. You can communicate with the departed. You have _control_ over Death himself. Yes?"

She grimaces. "No."

"What do you mean, no?" he nearly shouts. Then he takes a breath and deliberately lowers his voice. "You're the Mistress of Death. You _control_ death. It's right there in the name."

"Yes, well," she says. "The name is a _touch_ misleading, I'll admit. I understand your confusion. You're not the first to make this particular mistake—in fact, you're not even the hundredth."

He's speechless. This can't be happening.

"We really should look into changing that title," she muses, mostly to herself. "This wouldn't happen nearly so often if I were to be called, for example, the _Lover_ of Death. Although that has some unfortunate connotations of its own, doesn't it? Hm."

It takes him a few tries before he can speak. "Are you saying…?"

"That I am not the Mistress of Death in the sense of commanding him, but instead in the sense of sleeping with him? Yes, I'm afraid that's _exactly_ what I'm saying."

Unbelievable. Decades of searching. Hundreds of millions of dollars sunk into research. He's spent his entire _life_ dreaming of what he could do with the power of the Mistress of Death at his command. All of his plans are entirely ruined. His life's work, wasted. What will he do now?

"That…is not something you'll have to worry about," she says, making him realize he's been thinking aloud.

"What do you mean?" he asks. He's briefly distracted by a strange _thump_ from the hallway, but her answer draws his attention away from it.

"I may not _command_ Death," she says. "But he _is_ rather fond of me, you know. And he never takes this sort of thing well."

Well, that's ominous. He clears his throat.

"Right, well," he says. "I'm…so sorry for the confusion. I'll let you go, now."

"Oh, I'm afraid it's too late for that," she says, tone regretful. "Far too late."

"Really," he insists. "I'm sure we can come to some kind of understanding about this—I'm a very wealthy man, after all."

"No," a voice behind him corrects flatly. "You're a very _dead_ man."

He spins around to face the owner of the voice. It's a man, tall and dark, with a face that would almost certainly be classed as startlingly attractive if not for the blood splattered on it. Quinn darts a look past him and is somehow not surprised to see his head of security's body lying in the doorway in two distinct pieces.

This must be Death.

Quinn opens his mouth to plead his case, to offer Death money or power or _some_ kind of compensation, but he doesn't get the chance.

His death is slow and painful and very, very loud. It's a good thing Death already crossed off everyone in the building, or they would all have come running.

When he's finished, Death steps over what remains of Quinn and crosses the room to stand in front of Jemma.

"You know," he says mildly, pulling the blindfold off of her before kneeling to untie her from the chair. "This wouldn't keep happening if you would just agree to marry me. No one would misunderstand the title _Wife_ of Death."

"I've told you," she sighs, keeping her eyes determinedly on his bowed head. (She may be in love with Death, but _death_ is still distasteful to her. That's all right; her soft heart is one of the things he loves most about her.) "I want to finish my degree first."

"You already have twenty," he points out, exasperated. "How many do you _need_?"

"All of them," she says cheerfully. "What's the point in being immortal if you don't take advantage of the education opportunities it offers?"

He sighs—thirty years and he still hasn't managed to get a straight answer for why she won't marry him—and stands, offering his hand to help her out of the chair.

"Did they hurt you?" he asks.

"Not even a scratch," she says. She glances at Quinn's body, swallows, and then returns her eyes to Death's. "Thank you for coming to rescue me."

"Always," he promises. He reaches out to tuck some of her hair behind her ear, smiles at the way she doesn't flinch away from his blood covered hand. "Are you ready to get out of here?"

"Yes, please," she says. "You look as though you could do with a shower."

"I could," he agrees. "Are you going to join me?"

"Yes, please," she repeats, smiling just a little.

"Let's go, then," he says.

He pulls her close, wraps his arms around her, and closes his eyes. A moment later, the storage unit is empty.

The mystery of the slaughter at Shield Street Storage will never be solved. Neither will the gruesome deaths of two mercenaries at a hotel four blocks away.


	26. Season Two WardSimmons AU

A/N: anonymous said: "I know you said you won't be following season two for your soulmates fic, so could I request some season two biospecialist? With or without speculation on this week's episode. Please and thank you :)"

(It kind of ended up as pre-season two instead. Oops. Sorry!)

* * *

Jemma is fine. Well, mostly.

She's just tired, that's all. She's just so tired.

If she could only have a moment to rest, to breathe, to _think_, she's sure she'd be fine. If she could only have a moment.

But she can't. There's always so much to do—they've so few field operatives, now, and even fewer medics; she's called in to the med bay every ten minutes, it seems, for everything from stitches to major surgery. She's given up on reminding people that she's not _that_ sort of doctor; at this point, she just pulls on some latex gloves and gets right to work.

And when there are no injured agents to tend to, there's Fitz. Dealing with him is even more difficult than the medical work. She feels like the worst sort of person, the worst sort of _partner_, for thinking it, but there it is. At least in the med bay she has her field-med training to fall back on, and months of experience serving as the team medic. But she has no training, no frame of reference, in how to deal with Fitz as he is now—forgetful, unable to concentrate, unable to _focus_, and absolutely furious about all of the above. And every time he raises his voice to her, something inside of her breaks a little more.

It's not his fault. She _knows_ it's not his fault. So she bears the yelling and the occasional insult, smiles through it, rubs his shoulder, and accepts his apologies, the few times he realizes what he's doing. She steps in, again and again, to serve as an interpreter between Fitz and the other scientists, between the rest of the team and Fitz. She fills in the blanks for him and supplies words he can't quite reach.

They're still on the same wavelength. They're on the same path, as always, taking the same steps for the same dance. They're just a little out of sync now, that's all. But he's still Fitz, still her platonic soulmate, still her equal and still just as brilliant.

He's injured, but he's not _broken_.

If only she could get him to see that. If only she could get the _others_ to see that, to stop talking about a _cure_, as if he's _infected_, and to stop speaking to him in those soft, placating tones. Can't they see how much worse it makes things? Can't they see how it upsets him—and rightly so—to be treated like a child? He's one of the most brilliant minds SHIELD has ever seen, he doesn't need to be addressed as one would a recalcitrant toddler.

She's tried to speak to them, to explain, but she can't find the right words (a personal failing; unlike Fitz, she has no brain damage to blame, just her own inadequacies) to get through to them, and all she receives are smiles and nods before they continue treating Fitz like an idiot savant, rather than the genius he _still is_.

There are other things to be done, as well, of course. _This_ mysterious substance to be analyzed, _that_ inexplicable illness to be cured, _those_ samples to be examined for signs of exposure to alien influence. It's not exciting anymore. It's not fun. Jemma used to enjoy her work, before the world fell apart. She's seeing things, here in the Playground's labs, that once would have had her in paroxysms of delight.

These days, science is just one more responsibility on a long list of them.

She barely has the time to catch her breath, let alone eat or sleep. Eating can be accomplished in the lab—a quick protein bar eaten over the sink, or one of the disgusting nutritional shakes May has Skye drinking twice a day—but sleep is a little more difficult.

When she does find the time to sleep, it's not particularly restful. She's haunted by nightmares, always. Sometimes of the med-pod, of suffocating to death there in that tiny metal box at the bottom of the ocean. Sometimes she dreams that she left Fitz behind, swam away with the oxygen he gave her and abandoned him to death. (On those nights, she forsakes her room in favor of his; there's enough space, here in the Playground, for her to pull up a chair next to his bed and sit there and watch him breathe. He's injured, but he's not dead. That's what matters. He's not dead.)

Sometimes—more often than she'd care to admit, if anyone were to ask—she dreams of Ward.

Stalking them through the hallways—of the Bus, of the Playground, of the Hub—with his eyes cold and face blank, as it was when he dropped them out of the Bus. Garroting Skye, shooting Coulson, strangling May, torturing Fitz, all with that little smirk, the hint of smug amusement she saw when he found them in that shack at the airfield in Cuba. Killing them, all of them—from Trip to Skye to Izzy Hartley—while she stands by, frozen, unable to so much as squeak in protest.

Those aren't the worst of them, though.

No.

The worst are the _good_ dreams. Good dreams are nightmares too, these days. She dreams of waking beside him, of cuddling next to him on the couch. She dreams of his hands—holding hers, sliding up her thighs, running through her hair. She dreams of his lips against hers and against her skin. She dreams of stolen moments—fast and hard in a storage closet, slow and sweet in a hotel room. She dreams of smiles and laughter and warm, gentle eyes.

Those are the worst of the nightmares, because they're not really dreams. They're memories.

Her subconscious tortures her with them, with the constant reminder that she loves—_loved_—a man who was wholly unworthy of it. It was all a con, and she fell for it completely. He played all of them, certainly, but she was the worst of the lot.

He killed so many people. Eric Koenig, Victoria Hand, Carl Jacobson, Michael Chaimson. Thomas Nash. And those are only the ones they know for a fact that he personally killed. Certainly he's responsible for the deaths of all of the agents at the Fridge, and countless others besides.

He was party to what was done to all of Centipede's victims, to the mental, physical, and emotional anguish all of those people experienced as their loved ones were used as leverage to force them to commit horrible crimes. They still haven't found Mike Peterson—Ward was responsible for what happened to him, too.

So many atrocities they can credit to Ward, by action or inaction or both. So many people dead or traumatized or tortured. So many lives ruined.

And she never had a clue.

Jemma is supposed to be so brilliant. A SHIELD agent before the age of eighteen. Two PhDs before she was twenty-one. Countless inventions and discoveries to her name. One half of _the_ most brilliant partnership SHIELD has ever known.

She should have seen it. She should have known.

So, yes, she dreams of him often. Horrible nightmares, each and every one, even the ones—_especially_ the ones—that don't end in death or violence. She would never admit it, if anyone asked.

Luckily, no one does.

In any case, the point is that she's fine. A little tired, a little stressed, very overworked, but fine. Not that anyone is asking, but if they did she would tell them so very firmly. She's fine.

She's fine as she stitches up May after another pointless op. She's fine as she talks Fitz down from his anger over his inability to remember which of his inventions he was planning to complete today. She's fine as she performs a post-mortem on a civilian (poor man; they haven't the resources to identify him, not anymore) who was found inexplicably dead at the scene of a very suspicious crime.

She's fine as she's called in to Coulson's office, and she's fine as she gives him her report on the post-mortem. She's fine as he asks her to stay, once she's finished her report, and she's fine as he invites her to sit down.

She's fine as he asks her, quietly, to go down to the Vault and speak to Ward.

She blinks and shakes her head. She must have misheard him. "I'm sorry, sir?"

"I need you to speak to Ward," he says. His face is kind, but his eyes are flat—calculating. Evaluating her reaction, she realizes. "He has intelligence that we need, and you're the only one he'll give it to."

"I don't," she shakes her head again. "I don't understand. What information could he _possibly_ have—?"

"One of our agents in the field intercepted this," he tells her, sliding a piece of paper across his desk to her. "It's coded, and we don't have the time to crack it. We need to know, ASAP, if our op is blown."

She takes the paper, looks at the seemingly random combination of letters, numbers, and symbols. No, not symbols—more letters. She recognizes a few from the Cyrillic alphabet (pushes away the memory of Ward drawing them on her skin, tracing what he told her were endearments across her shoulders and down her spine).

Agents in the field, he said. They don't have many of those, not anymore. At this point, she's personally treated almost every single one of their remaining agents. She wonders which one, or ones, are involved in the op he's worried about. She wonders if she'll ever get the chance to treat them again.

"You're the only one he'll speak to, Simmons," Coulson insists. "I've tried twice already, and all he'll say is that he'll only speak to you."

Jemma doesn't remind him that he promised she would never have to do this. She doesn't mention how he vowed, in front of the entire team, that Ward was being held on the premises for security purposes only, and that none of them would be expected to interact with him. She doesn't bring up the way he took her hands in his and swore, as the security team carried an unconscious Ward down the stairs, that she would never have to see him again.

She'd like to.

But she doesn't. She simply nods and stands and wills her hands not to shake.

"With your permission then, Director," she says. "I'll do it now."

"Thank you," he says, solemnly. "And after this, I promise, you'll never have to see him again."

She nods again and lets herself out of his office.

Agent Koenig is waiting for her. He's cheerful as he leads her down to the Vault, happily listing the various security measures that Ward's cell has and explaining how to activate them from the tablet he hands her. She processes it all automatically, makes understanding noises, and tries very, very hard to forget performing a post-mortem on Agent Koenig's identical twin brother after he was murdered by the man she's about to go see.

Why will he only speak to her?

She pushes that thought away as they reach the door. Then, because she's distracted but still not stupid, she double checks her understanding of the controls on the security tablet. Once she's sure she has it right, Agent Koenig opens the door for her, and in she goes.

She works on steadying her breathing as she walks down the stairs. She reminds herself, once again, that she's fine. A little tired. A little stressed. A lot overworked. But fine.

She'll get through this. She'll get the information Coulson needs, then she'll go back upstairs, and she'll never have to see him again. For real, this time.

Ward is sitting on the edge of his bed, but he stands as she reaches the bottom of the stairs. He approaches the yellow line that denotes the location of the invisible forcefield which keeps him contained, stands right at the edge, just barely far enough back to keep the forcefield from activating. His eyes are locked on her as she crosses the room.

He looks different. He's sporting a beard—not a surprise; no one is stupid enough to give a man of _his_ skills any sort of razor—but that's not the biggest change. No, there's something…wrong. Something about the eyes, perhaps. Something about them sends ice crawling down her spine.

She chooses to stand behind the chair in front of his cell. It's silly—the forcefield will keep him contained, and should it (God forbid) fail, a tiny metal chair won't protect her. But she needs the physical barrier—the _visible_ barrier—something more than a line of paint.

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes," he muses. He looks her over, and the path his eyes take leaves a burning trail along her skin. It takes all of her willpower not to bolt.

She puts one hand on the back of the chair, casually. Trying to look stoic and unaffected, and almost certainly failing. She wants to say something, to get the information that she came for so she can leave, but she can't quite seem to find her voice.

"I told Coulson a week ago that I was willing to speak to you," Ward continues after a minute. He's frowning. "To give you intelligence. Why now?"

She still can't speak.

"Something bad happened?" he asks.

Not yet, but something might. Thinking of the agent or agents who even now might be in danger gives her the push she needs. She digs down deep inside of herself, finds her courage, and steps around the chair to closer approach the barrier.

"I need to know what this means," she says. She holds up the paper Coulson gave her, as close to the forcefield as she dares. "Do you know this code?"

He doesn't even look at it. "How've you been? You look thinner." His eyes flick over her again, down and then up, lingering on her face. "Too busy working to eat?"

His voice is a little exasperated, with a touch of scolding, and she barely holds back a flinch. He sounds so much like the old Ward, the one she believed cared about her (_loved_ her), who was forever fondly scolding her for not taking care of herself properly.

_Science can wait_, he used to say. _You can't solve the mysteries of the universe and pass out from exhaustion at the same time._

She steels herself and pushes the memory away. It was a lie. She has to remember that. All of it was a lie. She has all the proof she needs for that right upstairs, probably missing her by now. She needs to finish this and get back to Fitz, quickly.

"Do you know this code?" she asks again, shaking the paper a little for emphasis.

He leans forward, close enough that the forcefield becomes briefly visible, and pulls back as the light flares. Her eyes are drawn to the scar on his right cheek. She remembers treating the cut, warning him it would probably scar. Remembers how he asked her, once he'd finished briefing the rest of the team and they were left alone, whether she'd still love him if it did. Remembers the strange edge of desperation in his tone, the fierce way he kissed her when she assured him (playfully, yet entirely sincerely) that she would love him no matter what.

A lie, she reminds herself sternly, and returns her eyes to his. He's watching her, thoughtfully, and it sets her on edge. She wants to finish this, to learn what he knows and then leave. Once she does this, she'll never have to see him again. Coulson promised. She'll never have to see him again.

Except in her nightmares.

"Yes," he says simply. "I know the code."

She waits. When he doesn't continue, she takes a deep breath, holds it, then lets it out slowly. She can't let him get to her.

"What does it say?" she asks, deliberately calm.

Ward smiles, just a little. It's a dangerous smile, vicious almost, and she can't stop herself from taking a step back. He notices—of course he does—and the smile softens into something knowing.

"It says Coulson's testing you," he says.

"What?"

"Not on the paper," he clarifies, flicking one hand dismissively. "But that you're here. It's not because something bad happened. It's because Coulson's testing your loyalty."

"My…?" she breaks off, shaking her head. "I don't care. Just tell me what the code means."

"Not your loyalty," he says, mostly, she thinks, to himself. "Your dedication. He's worried that he's losing you. You're obviously stressed, overworked, not your usual cheerful self—he wants to know how far he can push you, see if you'll snap. Better if it happens now, under controlled conditions, than during a crisis."

She can't help her immediate reaction: the way she considers the words, the way they make her think _perhaps_…but she can control what she does next. She reminds herself, firmly, that he is a liar and a murderer and a traitor, then takes another step back (this time on purpose).

"I can see this was a waste of time," she says, and turns away.

"It is," Ward agrees. "But not the way you think it is."

She shakes her head, tucking the paper away, and heads for the stairs.

"That's a SHIELD code," he says, and she stops.

"What are you talking about?" she asks, without turning back around. She shouldn't.

She knows she should just keep walking, leave the Vault, and tell Coulson that she failed. This was pointless from the start—of course Ward wouldn't tell her the truth, any more than he'd tell Coulson. That he asked for her specifically was just cruelty—taking the opportunity to rub his deception in her face. As though it isn't bad enough she has to see him in her nightmares.

"I learned that code in the Academy," he says. "Coulson did, too, I bet. And May. Trip. Whoever else you've got up there. It's a standard SHIELD code, usually used in dead drops. Coulson knows what that says. He's probably the one who wrote it."

She turns around, because that's just ridiculous. "And why on _earth_ would I believe you?"

"Because this isn't middle school," he says flatly. "HYDRA doesn't pass notes on paper like a bunch of seventh graders. There are ways—secret channels—that HYDRA agents use to pass messages. If you'd intercepted a HYDRA message, it wouldn't be on a piece of paper. It would be a coded transmission." He pauses. "Also, there's the content of the message."

"What does it say?" she asks, although she's sure she'll just be getting more lies.

"That's the biggest tip-off that Coulson wrote it," he says. "It's a verse from _The Star Spangled Man With a Plan._"

_That_ is the most ridiculous thing she's ever heard, and she doesn't believe it for a second. She's not even going to bother responding to it. She just shakes her head, turns away again, and starts up the stairs.

"I'm not lying, Jemma," he says.

She almost stumbles, because it's been so long since anyone called her Jemma, and it _aches_, hearing it from him. But she maintains her balance and keeps going. She's nearly at the top of the stairs, nearly out. She can tell Coulson that this was a fool's errand and return to Fitz, and she'll never have to come here again.

"What will it take for you to believe me?" he asks, and she stops with her hand on the door.

She thinks of the nights she wakes with a scream trapped in her throat. She thinks of the light that's disappeared from Skye's eyes. She thinks of the picture she saw on Izzy Hartley's bedside table, once, when she had to hunt her down to check her stitches—Izzy and Victoria Hand, wrapped around each other on a sunny beach. She thinks of Fitz's struggles.

She thinks of Eric Koenig's trachea, sliced and crushed.

"A miracle," she says honestly, and opens the door.

She thinks he starts to say something else, but she closes the door quickly, before she can hear more than a few syllables. She remembers, belatedly, that she could have turned the forcefield solid and blocked him out, but…well, it's too late now. And, honestly, it seems a little cruel. He's already isolated; boxing him off in that tiny space is unnecessary.

She's projecting. She has claustrophobia, now, after what _he_ did to her, and she's projecting. Still, she hands the tablet back to the waiting Agent Koenig without touching the controls. What would be the point?

"How'd it go?" Koenig asks, curious.

"It was a waste of time," she says. "Could you please inform Director Coulson that I didn't get anything?"

Koenig hesitates. "He'll need your report."

"And I'll give it to him," she promises. "Later. For now, I need to get back to the lab, and the Director needs to know that _he_ won't be helping us."

"Okay," Koenig agrees reluctantly. "But get that report to him ASAP, okay?"

"Of course," she says.

She gives him her best smile—which isn't very good, at the moment—and heads back up into the main base. She needs to get back to Fitz. It's nearly dinnertime, and she hasn't seen him since this morning. He's probably scared off all of the lab attendants again, and he might need her.

She needs to get back to Fitz. But she needs a moment first.

She ducks into one of the storage closets, because she doesn't think her legs will hold her for much longer, and she doesn't want to collapse in the middle of the corridor. So she goes into the storage closet, closes the door, and sinks to the ground.

She's shaking. She feels tears burning in her eyes and blinks them away. There's no time for crying. She only has a moment. She only _needs_ a moment.

Ward is lying. Of that, she has no doubt. He's a liar and a traitor and a murderer, and he asked for her specifically only because he wanted the opportunity to torment her. She _knows_ that.

But she doesn't want him to be. Some part of her—a surprisingly large part—wants it to be true. She wants this to have been a test from Coulson. She _wants_ to believe that he could be so cruel, so calculating, as to force her to face the man who haunts all of her worst nightmares. She _wants_ to believe that Coulson is that heartless, and before she can return to work, she needs to figure out why.

So Jemma sits, and she shakes, and she swallows back her tears, and she _thinks_.

It's not that she wants Coulson to be a villain, no. She's had quite enough of that already, thank you—putting her faith in the wrong people, taking orders and following the leadership of those who care for nothing but causing pain. She doesn't want to find that it's happening again—is, honestly, not entirely certain she would survive it. So it's not that.

It's not so much that she wants it to be true, then, as it is…

Oh. Of course.

She doesn't want it to be true. She wants it not to be a lie. A subtle but important difference. It's nothing to do with Coulson at all. It's nothing to do with logic or reason, either.

It's her heart. Her horrible, _traitorous_ heart, which still loves a horrible, traitorous man. She wants him to have been honest with her. She wants him to have requested her out of a true desire to see her, instead of out of cruelty. Just a little something to keep the spark of hope inside of her alive.

It's silly. It's foolish. It's downright _stupid_. She knows better. She really, truly does. All she has to do, if she needs proof that Ward never cared, is look at Fitz—remember what he suffered, how he _still_ suffers, because Ward tried to kill them.

And yet.

Somewhere, deep inside of her, in the darkest corners of her stupid, stupid heart, she still wants it to be a misunderstanding. She wants to learn that he was being controlled, or blackmailed, or coerced somehow. She wants to be told he was undercover. She wants to believe, as she did at first, that there's more to the story.

She wants it not to be a lie. Not just the conversation she just had with him. Everything. She wants the friendship, the trust, the _love_, to not have been a lie. She wants to believe that he really did love her, as she loved him. She wants to believe that the promises he made her were made in earnest.

She wants, with the desperate longing of the foolish schoolgirl she never really was, to have _mattered_ to him.

But she didn't. It was a lie. Their relationship was a lie. His dedication to the team was a lie. And, most importantly, what he just told her was a lie.

She allows herself one more moment—just one—to smother that spark of hope inside of her. She's tired and stressed and overworked. She doesn't have time for foolish fantasies.

Then she stands, brushes the dust off of her trousers, and goes back out into the corridor. She takes three steps and runs straight into one of the maintenance men—Stelan, she thinks.

"Are you all right, Agent Simmons?" Stelan asks, steadying her.

"Oh, yes," she says. "I'm fine."

And she is. She makes her apologies and continues on her way to the lab. She's fine as she enters it. She's fine as she talks Fitz through a mental block. She's fine as she grabs a protein bar for dinner. She's fine as she turns her attention to the experiment she has running.

She's absolutely fine.


	27. such a pretty liar

A/N: a very brief look at how else a certain conversation in 2x03 might have gone. accordingly, contains spoilers for 2x03.

* * *

This isn't working.

This isn't working at all, and Donnie's actions weren't the slightest bit subtle. SHIELD will be on the way, if they aren't here already, and that means that Jemma needs to persuade Donnie and get them out of here, quickly.

It's time for a new tactic.

"Do you remember Seth, Donnie?" she asks, cutting off his accusations.

He stiffens. "Don't."

"I do," she says. "I think of him every day. Do you?"

"Stop it," he orders, but his voice shakes. "You don't mention him. You don't have the right to—"

"To remember him?" she interrupts. "To mourn him? A boy—a child—who died because of SHIELD? A child whose life I could have saved, if I were only a little faster? If I'd only had the _tools_ I needed?"

"Because of…" He shakes his head. "It wasn't SHIELD's fault."

"No?" she asks. Steeling herself, she steps a little closer to him. "Do you remember Agent Coulson, Donnie? You met him very briefly."

Donnie blinks, then shrugs. "Yeah, guy in a suit. What does he have to do with S—with what happened?"

"Agent Coulson died once," she says. She watches his face, takes in his confusion. "Oh, yes. Before the Battle of New York. He was stabbed. His heart was completely torn in half. It killed him, of course. He was dead for _days_. And then SHIELD saved him."

"That's impossible," he says flatly.

"I thought so, too," she agrees. "And then one of our team was injured. Skye. Do you remember her?"

He nods.

"She was shot twice," she says. "We took her to a SHIELD trauma center, but there was nothing they could do. They put her on life support and told us to say our goodbyes."

"What's your point?" he demands.

"Agent Coulson wasn't willing to accept that," she says. She looks away for a moment, taps her fingers on the railing. "When I nearly died a few months earlier, he told _me_ to find a way to save myself. But when Skye was dying…well, she always was his favorite." Donnie is clearly getting impatient, so she gets back to the point. "Coulson knew that he had died and been brought back to life, and in order to save Skye, he sought out the means. We found it."

He scowls. "What—"

"I'm getting to my point, Donnie," she interrupts. Then curses herself, because it clearly gets his back up, and makes the effort to soften her tone. "Just listen, please. We found that the major factor in his…resurrection, if you'll forgive the term, was a drug called GH-325. Coulson was given a dose of it after being dead for _days_, and he began to show signs of cellular regeneration literal minutes later. It knit his heart back together."

Donnie is shaking his head, but he's not trying to interrupt her anymore. That's something.

"Skye coded twice before we got the GH-325 to her," she continues. "It's my professional opinion that without it, she would have been dead within minutes. But we gave her the GH-325, and she stabilized almost immediately. She regained consciousness twelve hours later and, within the week, had improved to the point of trying to sneak out of the med-pod we had her in."

This is the important part, so she steps closer, lowers her voice. He leans in slightly, probably despite himself. She's almost got him.

"Skye was brought back from the brink of death," she says. "Coulson was brought back literal days after dying. SHIELD had the means and knew that they worked." She moves closer still, takes in the way his brow furrows as he processes her words. "SHIELD _knew_ how to save lives with a single drug. Director Fury himself was behind the procedure that saved Coulson. He _personally_ approved it." She takes the final step, bringing her close enough to lay her hand on his arm. "So ask yourself this, Donnie. Why is Seth still dead?"

Donnie looks down at her hand, then back at her. "Are you saying…?"

"That SHIELD could have saved Seth?" she asks. "Yes, Donnie. That's precisely what I'm saying. And he's not the only one. Do you know how many agents died in and before the Battle of New York? How many died between that and SHIELD's fall? Dozens, certainly, if not hundreds. And of all of those agents—good men and women, who only wanted to protect people—only one was saved. Only Agent Coulson."

Donnie takes a deep breath. She's getting through to him, she can tell. His jaw is clenched tightly and ice is spreading along the railing where his hand is wrapped around it. He's angry.

That's good.

"Director Fury," she says, slowly and deliberately. "Chose to save the life of his former student." She sees him jerk slightly at that information, sees the way it sinks in. "And _only_ his former student. Not any of the other men and women who died in the line of duty in New York. Not any of the men and women who gave their lives attempting to complete SHIELD operations. And not a cadet—your best friend—who made _one_ mistake. An eighteen-year-old _boy_ whose only crime was trusting the wrong person."

"They could have saved him?" he asks. His voice is shaking slightly. "They could have brought Seth back?"

"Yes," she says. "Very easily. SHIELD could have saved Seth. They chose not to."

"It's all the same, though," he says, although he doesn't sound as sure of himself as he did earlier. "SHIELD was HYDRA."

"Not in this," she disagrees. She's careful to keep her voice soft and sympathetic, adds a little squeeze to his arm. "Fury restricted the knowledge of GH-325. Aside from the doctors who used it, he was the only one who knew existed. And after we gave it to Skye, I was told not to study it."

"But _why_?"

"I don't know, Donnie," she says. "I truly don't. The means to save countless lives were placed within my grasp and then snatched away. Because of SHIELD and its secrecy—its pointless dependence upon compartmentalization." She squeezes his arm again. "That's the difference between SHIELD and HYDRA. SHIELD kept secrets and plays favorites. HYDRA not only _allows_ the pursuit of knowledge, it _encourages_ it."

He looks down at her hand.

"Don't you miss pursuing knowledge, Donnie?" she asks. "Aren't you tired of running?"

He swallows and looks back up at her. He hesitates for a long moment, then nods once, sharply.

"You don't have to run anymore," she says. "It's time you put that brain of yours back to work. Come back with me. Come back to HYDRA."

"Okay," he says softly. "Okay."

"Thank you," she says, letting go of his arm. "Now, if you'll follow me? We've a plane waiting nearby, as this ship won't be sailing anytime soon."

She says it with a smile and a conspiratorial nudge, and it gets her a little smile.

"No," he agrees. "I guess it won't."

He follows her up to the deck, where Mr. Bakshi is waiting for them with only a fraction of the guards that were here before.

"Mr. Gill," he says. "Welcome back. Don't worry, you won't regret this."

"I hope not," Donnie mutters.

"If you'll follow these gentlemen," Mr. Bakshi says. "They'll get you settled in our transportation."

Donnie hesitates, looking at Jemma.

"I'll be along in a moment," she promises. "Go on."

He hesitates a moment longer, then nods and follows three of the guards off the ship. She watches him go and wonders why her heart is beating so fast.

"Good work, Miss Simmons," Mr. Bakshi says silkily. (For approximately the seven hundredth time, she resists the urge to correct him. It's _Doctor_ Simmons. _Doctor_. She has two PhDs, for goodness' sake, why is that difficult to remember?) "You've saved us a lot of trouble."

Her hands, oddly enough, are shaking. She slides them into her pockets, hoping he hasn't noticed.

"Happy to comply."


	28. post-2x02 HYDRA AU

A/N: anonymous said: "Hey, sorry i don't have tumblr, but just read your collection of Jemma/Grant drabbles :) could you write on where Jemma returns to shield after S2E02 and breaks Ward out?"

* * *

In the end, it's very simple.

Jemma returns to the Playground, full of apologies and tears. She tells Coulson that he was right, and SHIELD is where she belongs. She's not exactly the world's best liar—although she's certainly miles better than she used to be—but he buys it at once. He's so smug, so self-righteous, that he doesn't look past the tears. And why would he? It's exactly what he was expecting when she left: that, soon enough, she would come crawling back to be showered with _I told you so_s.

Agent Koenig makes noises about procedure and testing and the need for a new lanyard, but Coulson overrules him.

"That can wait," he says benignly. "I'm sure Agent Simmons would like to see her partner first."

"Yes," she agrees. "Very much. How has he been?"

Coulson smiles, all smug benediction, and she looks down because she's not sure she can keep her opinion of his condescension off of her face.

"Why don't you go see?" he suggests.

"Thank you," she says, standing. "And then, Agent Koenig, I promise I'll submit to whatever testing you think is necessary."

It's an empty promise, of course. There won't be an _and then_.

Coulson waves her off, and she leaves the office with relief. Step one complete.

Step two is just as easy. Instead of going to the lab, she goes to the nearest maintenance closet. There's access to the ventilation system, and she makes good use of it. The gas she designed while she was away—odorless, colorless, and _very_ fast-acting—will spread through the base in moments. There are, of course, fail-safes and secondary systems meant to prevent this kind of biological attack, but they're easy enough to disable—after all, she designed them, too.

It was very sloppy of them, she muses as she removes the gas mask and gas canisters from her handbag, not to do so much as a cursory search of her belongings. But then, _sloppy_ is an excellent descriptor for Coulson's operation as a whole.

She pulls on the gas mask, deploys the canisters, and waits. She gives it ten minutes, starts to leave, and then hesitates and decides to wait another five to be safe. Haste makes waste, and all that, and if she messes this up she won't get another chance.

Luckily, step two appears to have gone perfectly, as well. The gas has successfully incapacitated everyone in the base. They'll wake in about ten hours—six, at the very least—and by then she'll be long gone.

Which means it's time for step three: a trip to the Vault. She makes her way through the corridors cautiously, one hand on her ICER. There's no reason to believe that anyone could withstand the biochemical agent she's just distributed throughout the base, but she can't get careless.

However, her caution is unnecessary. She makes it to the Vault without encountering anyone—anyone conscious, at least. She does have to step over and around the bodies littering the corridors—people who collapsed where they stood as the gas affected them—and that's…a touch off-putting, but, well, needs must.

The door to the Vault isn't locked at all. Once again, sloppy. And to think her superiors thought it was a risk to send her in alone. Ha! They could have sent one of the _children_, for all of the opposition she's facing.

She pauses in the act of stepping through the door. Something about that thought…

She shakes it off and continues into the Vault. The forcefield is transparent, at the moment, allowing her to see her target. Ward, of course, was just as affected by the gas as the rest of them. She does wish she could leave him that way—just because she's here to rescue him doesn't mean she's forgiven him for trying to kill her—but, sadly, she doesn't have anywhere near the necessary upper-body strength to get him up the stairs, let alone all the way out of the base.

She deactivates the forcefield—speaking of sloppy, the controls for the cell are _right_ outside of it—and enters the cell, pulling another gas mask out of her handbag as she does so. She has an antidote for the chemical agent—uncreatively named _quick knock out gas_ by the field agents of her acquaintance—but it would hardly do to give it to him while he's still _breathing_ it.

She kneels next to him to fit the mask over his face, checks that it's secure, and then sits back on her heels. She reaches into her handbag, but finds herself hesitating. Perhaps…she should give it a moment.

She examines the scars on his wrists and face. They all seem to have healed well. Good; the stitches were, admittedly, not her best work. To her shame, she allowed herself to be swayed by emotion while she was treating him. It makes her roll her eyes at herself, now, to remember the way her hands shook as she stitched him up the first time.

Enough hesitation. She pulls the antidote—an imprecise term, but the one her superiors used—out of her handbag and injects Ward with it. Then she stands and takes several large steps back, because specialists, no matter their loyalties, do tend to wake up swinging.

Sure enough, she barely has time to blink before he's on his feet. Reflexively, she takes another step back. The motion catches his attention, and his eyes snap to her.

SHIELD (and HYDRA) gas masks aren't like the gas masks the rest of the world uses, of course. Those are too obvious, too blatant—very noticeable. Through a combination of miniaturization, cloaking, and Stark technology, SHIELD's science division managed to create a gas mask which is mostly invisible. Jemma was _not_ involved in that project, which is why the masks are only _mostly_ invisible.

But that's hardly the point. The point is that, when activated, the only visible part of the gas mask is the strap that secures it to the wearer's face. As such, Ward has no difficulty recognizing her.

He frowns. "Simmons?"

Then he jerks a little and brings one hand to his face, to the edge of the gas mask.

"Don't take that off," she warns.

He raises an eyebrow, but drops his hand, smart enough to know better than to disobey just for the hell of it. He looks around, taking in the fact that she's _inside_ his cell, and then crosses his arms.

"What are you doing here?" he asks.

"Breaking you out," she says flatly. "Let's go."

She starts to turn away, but his laugh stops her.

"Breaking me out?" he asks. "Really? You think I'm gonna buy that? What game are you playing, Simmons?"

"It's not a game," she snaps. "I'm here to get you out."

He's not convinced. "Why?"

"Because those are my orders."

"Whose orders?"

She spreads her hands, watches the _obvious_ occur to him. Watches his eyes widen and then go blank.

"No way," he says.

"Hail Hydra," she shrugs.

"No way," he repeats. "I don't buy it."

"It's the truth," she says. "Whether you buy it or not. I take orders from HYDRA. And my _orders_ are to get you out of here, so let's go."

Ward still doesn't move. "And you think they're just gonna let you walk out of here?"

"Us," she corrects, frustrated. "And they're not in any condition to stop us, so yes. I do."

"Well," he says. He grins, quick and sharp, and Jemma, for reasons she couldn't even begin to guess, barely suppresses a flinch. "This I gotta see. Lead the way."

Finally. She grabs her handbag, slings it over her shoulder, and leads the way out of the Vault. Ward is tense as he follows her, obviously expecting to be stopped (or perhaps shot) at any moment, and when they come across the first unconscious agent (a very large, very attractive man she hasn't met), he stops in his tracks.

"What did you do?" he asks, crouching next to the agent.

"Quick knock-out gas," she says. "In the ventilation system."

He looks up at her skeptically.

"I didn't name it," she adds defensively. "Are you satisfied now that this isn't a trick? Can we _leave_?"

He stands. "That could have just as easily been poison. Why only knock them out?"

"Those were my orders," she says simply. "Incapacitate, not eliminate."

Something passes over his face, something she can't read—but then, she never could read him, really—and he nods slowly.

"So that's how it is," he says. "Should've guessed."

"Guessed what?" she can't help but ask.

"Nothing," he says. "Are we going or what?"

That was _not_ nothing, but if he's done arguing, it's all to the good. She nods and gestures in the direction of the garage.

The walk through the Playground in silence. Jemma, in accordance with her orders, takes the route to the garage that avoids the labs entirely, even though it's much longer. Not that they're in any particular hurry—it will be hours yet before anyone in the base so much as stirs—but she does wonder at it.

Still, it's not her place to question orders, just obey.

All of the keys to the vehicles in the garage are hanging helpfully by the door, and she grabs the keys to a CRV at random. It's one of the tracked vehicles, as it happens, but that's hardly relevant. They'll only be taking it a few miles.

She can feel Ward's eyes burning into her as she leads the way across the garage to the CRV in question. And as she unlocks the door. And as they get in—her in the driver's seat, and she's a little surprised that he doesn't protest. And as she starts it up.

It makes her uncomfortable. She can feel the flush building at the base of her neck, and her skin is crawling a little—in a not entirely unpleasant way, which, perversely, makes her even _more_ uncomfortable. She wishes he would stop.

But she's not going to give him the satisfaction of asking him to, so she drives out of the garage in silence. Ward finally looks away as they exit the base, one hand coming up to shield his eyes from the glare of the midday sun.

"Where are we going?" he asks, pulling at his gas mask with the other hand.

Pulling to a stop at a red light, she takes the opportunity to remove her own. "To our pick-up point."

"Is it far?" he asks.

"Not very," she says, checking the street sign reflexively. "A few miles."

"Good to know," he says.

What happens next happens very quickly. Ward, who never buckled his seatbelt, leans across the center console and throws the car into park with one hand. He slings his other arm around her neck and tightens it, his upper forearm pressing against her throat and cutting off her air supply as he pulls her halfway out of her seat.

She claws at his arm, trying to get free—the ICER is in her handbag, which is in the backseat, far out of reach—but the brief physical training she's received is nothing compared to his years of specialist work, and her vision is already darkening.

"Sorry, Simmons," Ward murmurs, and he sounds strangely sincere. "But you'll thank me for this one day."

She'd love to tell him what she thinks of _that_, but she doesn't have the air to breathe, let alone speak. She claws harder at his arm, takes vicious satisfaction in the way she feels the skin tear under her nails, but it's no use. He says something else, something she can't make out, and then…

The world goes black.


	29. I'm coming, just sit tight!

A/N: weasleyspotter said: ""I'm coming, just sit tight!""

* * *

"I'm not going anywhere."

Jemma's voice is clearly shaking, even through the static on the comms, and Grant would dearly like to punch the person responsible for the fear he hears there. Unfortunately, he really doesn't have the time.

"Skye," he snaps. "Where am I going?"

"I don't _know_," Skye snaps back. "Wait, okay, just _wait_, I'm working on it."

"Work faster," he orders.

He continues moving through the base, because he can't just stand around waiting. Jemma is running out of time.

The base appears to be deserted; he hasn't come across a single person since entering it ten minutes ago. Despite that, it has some very advanced electronic shielding, which is scrambling the signal from Jemma's comm enough that Skye is having trouble pinning down her exact location. Which isn't good, considering the fact that Jemma is, by her own account, currently tied to a chair in a room that is slowly but steadily filling with water.

"Jemma," he says, turning another corner. "How we doing?"

"Oh, we're fine," she says, in what is probably supposed to be an airy tone. "We never liked this shirt anyway; it's no matter that it's dry-clean only."

Shit. If the water's high enough to ruin her shirt…

He checks another room—empty, goddamn it—and takes a deep breath, trying to get his own fear under control before he speaks again.

It's no use. His heart is racing in his chest, in a way it hasn't since his very first op, and it's only years of training that keeps his hands steady as he checks yet _another_ room only to find it empty. He needs to put it away. Jemma's scared enough for the both of them, and hearing him freaking out won't help anything. He needs to keep her calm, try and distract her.

So he tries for a joking tone. "Wait, aren't you wearing that purple one today? I like that one."

"You only like it because of the neckline," she accuses. He can still hear the fear in her voice, but it's not as obvious, so he goes with it—even though the whole team is listening and will never let him live it down.

Please, please let this be a funny story tomorrow.

"I'm only human, Jem," he says. "And it's a really great neckline."

"It's a very _low_ neckline," she corrects, a bit primly.

"Like I said," he says.

Jemma lets out a laugh that comes perilously close to being a sob, and he feels it like a punch to the throat.

"Hey," he says. "You're okay. You're gonna be okay, Jemma."

"The water," she says. "It's still—"

"I know," he says. "I know." He checks another room—fucking empty. "Tell me again about the room you're in, Jemma. Everything you see."

She takes a deep breath—and he can hear how that shakes, too. "It-It's an empty room. Stone walls. Approximately four meters by three meters. There are no windows."

"Where's the water coming from?" he asks, even though he already knows the answer. They've been over this before, multiple times, but she's a scientist, and giving her something to do—something to _observe_—helps, at least a little.

"From a pipe," she says. "High on the wall in front of me, near the right-hand corner. The water is rising at a rate of—"

"Don't worry about that," he interrupts. He really can't think about it, and he needs to be calm, too. "Where are you, in the room?"

"The center," she says. "Tied to a chair, which is bolted to the ground, and we have been _over_ this, Grant!"

Her voice breaks on his name, and he bites the inside of his cheek, struggling to maintain his composure.

"I know," he says. "It's okay, you don't have to keep going. You just have to sit tight, okay? I'm on my way."

"You're not going to make it," she says, and the fear in her voice is mostly overshadowed by resignation. "You're going to be too late."

His heart speeds up. "I'm not gonna be late, Jemma. Just a few more seconds, okay? As soon as Skye gets through—"

"Grant," she interrupts, and her voice is eerily calm now. "The water is at my shoulders. In two minutes, I'll be underwater entirely."

God _fucking_ damn it. He's going to save her. He's going to save her, and then he's going to cross off every single person who's ever so much as set _foot_ in this building, and then every single person they love, just for good measure. He's going to save her.

"No, you won't," he says, and ignores the way his own voice breaks. "In two minutes, you'll be out of there, and we'll be on our way back to the Bus."

"Grant—"

"Got it!" Skye shouts. "She's in the basement, northwest corner."

Shit. He takes off at a run, heading for the stairs he saw earlier. He's in the northern part of the building, but he's on the third floor. He's got two minutes to make it down to the corner of the basement level.

"On my way," he says. "Who's closest?"

"You are," Skye nearly whispers. "May's on the southeast side. Coulson's still on the roof."

He'd be swearing in every language he knows as he takes the stairs four at a time, but he can't afford to waste his breath. So he keeps that in. But he can't _not_ say anything to Jemma. He can't stand the silence on the comms.

"I'm on my way, Jemma," he says. "Just sit tight, okay, I'll be right there."

There's no response.

"Jemma?"

Nothing.

He hits the door at the bottom of the stairwell at a run, hears the way it slams behind him when he's already halfway down the hall.

"Skye," he snaps. "Which way?"

"First right, second left, end of the hall," she says. "Ward…it's been two minutes."

He keeps running.


	30. Don't fucking touch me

A/N: anonymous said: "Ok, Amy, do whichever you want! Do a combination! Do all of them separately! Just do do do whatever because you know if I could respectfully and lovingly force you to write Biospecialist all the time I would (but that's not a thing so... I'll just have to make do with what you can give me): "Don't fucking touch me." / "I'm sick of being USELESS." / "Shit, are you bleeding?!" / "Don't trust me." / "What happened doesn't change anything.""

* * *

"Don't fucking touch me."

Ward has the gall to chuckle. "Why, Simmons. I didn't think you had it in you."

He reaches for her again and, again, she shifts as far away from him as she can. Which, admittedly, is not very far, since she's currently chained to a wall by one hand. The fact that he is _also_ chained to the wall is not even a little comforting.

"Simmons," Ward sighs, all traces of amusement disappearing. "I'm not gonna hurt you. I just want a look at that head injury you've got."

"And I suppose you expect me to just take your word for it?" Jemma asks.

"No," he says. "I don't. But…" This time, she doesn't see it coming, and he's able to grasp her chin in his free hand before she can move. "Either way, there's not much you can do to stop me."

She tries to jerk away from him, but his grip is like iron.

He rolls his eyes and tilts her head, eyeing the still-bleeding wound on her temple. As if it isn't bad enough that she's been taken prisoner and locked in a cell with _Ward_, of all people, she also has to deal with a pounding headache and blood dripping into her right eye. It's very unpleasant.

"Looks okay," he decides after a moment, letting go of her chin. She scoots as far away from him as she can. "Head wounds bleed a lot."

"I'm aware," she snaps, and swipes the back of her free hand across her forehead. It, naturally, comes away bloody, and she wipes it on her jeans.

Ward rolls his eyes again and rests his head against the wall.

"Your attitude isn't going to help us get out of here," he says.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she says. "Did you want me to be helpful? Perhaps you should have thought of _that_ before you tried to _kill us_."

"Orders," he shrugs. "It was nothing personal."

She gapes at him, completely unable to gather a coherent response to _that_. How is trying to _kill someone_—someone who once trusted you and called you a friend and depended on you for protection—_not_ personal?

"And, to be fair," he adds. "I'm not the one who sent two untrained scientists to retrieve stolen property from a well-armed enemy force. How exactly was Coulson expecting that to end, do you think?"

Although she was, admittedly, the one to bring it up, Jemma would really rather not think of that day. She would also rather not talk to Ward at all, but he's apparently in a chatty mood, so if he's going to be talking anyway, she might as well redirect the conversation to something a little less traumatic.

"Where are we?" she asks.

He shrugs and rests his head against the wall. "Can't be sure. But if I had to guess, I'd say a HYDRA base."

"HYDRA?" she scoffs. "Really? You're _with_ HYDRA. Why would they lock you up?"

"I was with Garrett," he corrects. "With him gone, I've got no reason to work for HYDRA."

He's unbelievable. He betrayed the team and didn't even have the decency to stick with the organization he betrayed them _for_? Does he have no concept of loyalty at all?

"And refusing to work for them got you thrown in a cell with me?" she asks, a little skeptically.

"Well, that and the two of their bases I raided," he agrees easily.

She stares.

"I needed supplies," he says. "Didn't know how many of my drop boxes were compromised. And I had the base security specs, so…"

"So you single-handedly raided two HYDRA bases," she completes.

"Yeah, pretty much."

This may just be the most surreal conversation she's ever had. "It really took two bases? Exactly what sort of supplies did you _need_?"

"No, I got what I needed from the first base," he says. "The second was just because the first was so much fun."

"Fun," she says flatly.

"Yep."

Her head is killing her, and it's not only because of the injury. She's stuck in a cell—likely a HYDRA cell, and she knows exactly how _that_ always ends—with a man she hates, who tried (and very nearly succeeded) to kill her less than two months ago. She has no idea how she got here and no way of getting out.

In short, things are looking grim, and if she were a slightly more violent person, she might punch Ward in the face just for how calm he looks.

"Well, I hope your fun was worth it," she mutters, slumping back against the wall. Then she reconsiders. "Actually, no. I hope it was decidedly _not_ worth it, and that you regret all of your life choices."

Ward laughs.

"Oh, what now?" she asks. "_What_ is so funny?"

"Nothing," he says. "Except I always did like you, Simmons. You're cute."

She closes her eyes, trying to process the fact that the man who betrayed and tried to kill her entire team just called her _cute_, of all things, and when she opens them again it's to see him pulling his wrist out of the suddenly unlocked shackle that's been keeping him in place.

"What—?"

"I gotta say," he says, rubbing his wrist. "I'm a little insulted. Were they seriously expecting _that_ to keep me here for long?" He stands. "I'm a _specialist_, for Christ's sake, and they didn't even bother to cuff both hands? Idiots."

She doesn't know why he's suddenly more frightening, now that he's free. As he just said, he is (or was) a specialist. He could have killed her very easily with just the one hand. Removing the shackle doesn't make him more dangerous, just more mobile. Still, staring up at him, she finds that the fear which faded slightly over the course of their conversation has suddenly returned.

He crouches in front of her and reaches for her shackled wrist. She jerks away reflexively.

"Don't start that again," he chides. "I'm about to do you a favor, Simmons."

"And why would you do that?" she asks, but stays still as he reaches for her wrist again.

"Because I," he says, as the shackle falls open. "Am just that nice. Now, let's go."

Her wrist is more than a little sore after being caught in that shackle for…however long she's been here, and she rubs at it as she watches him stand.

"Well?" he says, expectantly, when he doesn't move.

"You can't honestly expect me to go _anywhere_ with you," she says.

Ward sighs. "What's it gonna take to convince you that I'm not going to hurt you?"

"The last time I saw you, you tried to _kill_ me," she points out, annoyed. "So, as it happens, it will take a lot."

"Simmons," he says. "If I had tried to kill you? You'd be dead."

"You came _very_ close," she snaps. "And, as it is, Fitz…" She breaks off, because thinking of Fitz is just too painful.

Something flickers over Ward's face, but it's gone before she can identify it.

"Simmons," he says, a little more gently. "You've got nothing to lose."

She sighs and looks away. Going with him is a horrible idea and she knows it. He's a murderer and a traitor and she has no reason to believe that he's really left HYDRA. However, he does have a point.

What has she got to lose, really? HYDRA could only have captured her for one reason: to recruit her. Her answer, of course, will be no, and there's only one way that ends. If she goes with Ward, she _might_ be killed or recaptured or stuck right back in this cell, but if she doesn't, she'll _definitely_ be tortured and killed.

Going with him can't put her in a position that's any worse than the one she's currently in.

"Fine," she says, and pushes herself to her feet. "But this doesn't change anything. I don't trust you."

"No," he agrees, looking more amused than insulted. "You're much smarter than that."

As she stands back and watches him get to work on unlocking the door, Jemma has to disagree.

She's almost certain she's going to regret this.


	31. MaySimmons(Ward) AU

A/N: darkangelcryo said: "MayxWardxSimmons : "Look at me - just breathe, okay?""

* * *

"I can't breathe."

"Yes you can, Jemma," Melinda says calmly. "You're okay. Just look at me. Take a deep breath."

She does, with difficulty.

"Good. Now let it out—_slowly_."

Again, she obeys.

"Good. Now again. And again."

She follows Melinda's instructions, feels the panic seeping out of her with every exhale, and lets the firm grip on her wrists ground her in the now. Gradually, her heartbeat slows, and her breathing with it, as Melinda talks her through. Her hands are still shaking, but she knows that will take much more than some deep breathing to stop.

Reason returns as her panic fades, and she slumps forward, resting her forehead against Melinda's shoulder. One of Melinda's hands slides into her hair to cup the back of her neck, and she closes her eyes and focuses on it—on the warmth of it, the familiar calluses—as she tries to bury the shame burning in her chest.

She has nothing to be ashamed of. She _knows_ that.

"Just a nightmare," she murmurs, mostly to herself. "Again."

Melinda's other arm snakes around her waist and pulls her a little closer—although there's not much closer she can get, curled in Melinda's lap as she is.

They remain like this in silence for a long while. It's not as comfortable as it used to be—the silence, that is. There's always the awareness of what's missing, other arms that should be around them glaring in their absence.

There used to be someone else to comfort her after her nightmares. These days, he's the one who stars in them.

It's not that Jemma's not grateful for Melinda. She _is_. She loves Melinda dearly. And, on a purely selfish level, she can't imagine going through this alone. It's bad enough, mourning the betrayal _with_ Melinda. If she had to suffer through it by herself? She doesn't know that she could survive that.

She's grateful to still have Melinda. The strength and comfort—the _peace_—that she draws from her cannot possibly be overstated. Still, they started this with three. Being down to two feels…wrong. Off-balance. Like a table with one of its legs slightly shorter than the others—still functional, but wobbly.

"You want to talk about it?" Melinda asks eventually.

"Just the usual," Jemma says. She tries for a dismissive tone, but knows she falls far short of it. "Med-pod. Ocean. Drowning."

Her voice breaks on the last word, and Melinda's hand tightens briefly on her neck, then relaxes.

"Do you want to go see Fitz?"

She shakes her head against Melinda's shoulder. "He wasn't in this one."

"Ah."

She nearly cries at the understanding she hears in that single syllable, because she knows she doesn't need to say anything more. They don't say his name—the traitor's—anymore, because Jemma is too hurt and Melinda is too angry (and hurt, though she'd never say it), but somehow, it's just as painful to dance around it as it is to outright say it.

It's a relief to know she can leave it at that, that she doesn't need to recount the dream: being stalked through the halls of the Bus' storage area, fleeing a man she once believed would never hurt her. (No, not believed—_knew_, _knew_ like she knows the Periodic Table, like she knows biology and chemistry and _fact_.) She doesn't need to verbalize the terror of being cornered in that med-pod and dropped from the Bus. She doesn't need to search out words to describe the look on _his_ face as he watched her fall and made no move to catch her.

She and Melinda understand one another. It would hurt Jemma to share her nightmare, and it would hurt Melinda to hear it. So it's good that she doesn't have to, that just mentioning Fitz's absence is enough to imply the content of the dream.

It's not a new nightmare. Not at all. In the months since…since SHIELD fell, she's had it often. Along with others—some worse, some better, almost all starring _him_.

But she doesn't want to think about that.

"What time is it?" she asks.

Melinda shifts slightly, checking the clock. "Nearly four."

Jemma sighs. She knows she won't be getting back to sleep, not after that, and Melinda always gets up at five, so there's no point in her trying, either.

"Sorry," she says.

"Don't be," Melinda says simply. "Are you ready to get up?"

She'd like to stay here a while longer, safe and warm in the arms of the woman she loves, and try to absorb a little of the comfort she feels here. But emotion doesn't work through osmosis, and it's no use. It doesn't matter how long they stay like this. As soon as they part, the comfort will fade and reality will return—reality, where their team is fractured. Where Skye's heart has hardened, where Coulson hides himself away, where Fitz is belligerent and damaged. Where the other half of her solid foundation is locked away in a cell somewhere, out of sight but never far from her mind.

She has plenty to do today, and knows that it's the same for Melinda. They might as well get started.

"Yes," she says. "I'm ready."


	32. Opposing Sides AU

Jemma Simmons has always been a terrible liar.

She's well aware of it, and has been since she was a child, trying (and failing utterly) to convince her father that it wasn't _she_ who altered the fertilizer for his prized roses in order to see what effect a slight change in chemical composition would have upon their condition. In her entire life, she probably hasn't managed to tell ten successful lies.

She can't lie to _anyone_—not even herself.

So she knows that she's out of control. She knows she's being utterly foolish. Worse than foolish, even—stupid and naïve and irrational.

There are lines. There are lines that people shouldn't cross, things they shouldn't do. Jemma has firm morals and has always done her best to uphold them. Just because the world isn't an ideal place is no reason not to live by her ideals. There are limits and boundaries and very clear lines between what is right and what is wrong.

She's crossed the line. She knows it. She can try all she likes to tell herself that she hasn't, that this is a minor infraction and that she's not doing anyone any harm, but she's always been a terrible liar and she _knows_ she's lying now.

This is wrong. The first time, perhaps, wasn't: before she knew the truth, when he was just a ridiculously attractive stranger, well-formed and with excellent facial symmetry, with whom she could pass a very pleasant few hours—that wasn't wrong.

But this? Knowing who and _what_ he is, but seeing him anyway? Sneaking away from base with excuses that no one questions (not because she lies well, but because they _trust_ her) in order to meet him? This is wrong.

He's the enemy. He works for HYDRA—murderers and oppressors and _terrorists_. He's hurt and tortured and killed people; he's never denied it. He has so much blood on his hands that sometimes, when she returns to base after a night with him, she imagines she can see it streaked on her skin.

He's the enemy, and if she were even half the person she's always believed herself to be, she would be sending a team of field agents to meet him at the hotel instead of going herself. If she were a good person—a _decent_ person—he would be in a cell by the end of the night, awaiting interrogation. Instead, by the end of the night, he'll be wrapped around her, tracing patterns on her skin and whispering in her ear, telling her how much he wishes he could stay.

She doesn't know if that's true. As bad as she is at lying, he's that good. He might be playing her—in fact, it's probable. He's a high-level HYDRA operative, and she's one of SHIELD's (what little remains of it) foremost scientists. It's incredibly likely that he's just lulling her into a false sense of security, working to gain her trust and her affection so she won't see it coming when he betrays her.

Every time she sneaks away to meet him, she wonders if this will be the night that she meets with a HYDRA interrogator instead.

But she goes anyway. She can't help it. Life is hard and cruel, these days, with her friends dead and her parents out of contact and the organization she dedicated her life to left in ruins. Despite knowing who and what he is, she finds comfort in him—the only comfort she finds at all, anymore—in the feeling of his strong arms wrapped around her and his callused hands (callused from bringing death and pain to HYDRA's enemies, to her _friends_ and to _innocent people_) on her skin.

It's wrong. It's beyond wrong. She frequently has knowledge of the whereabouts of a high-ranking enemy agent, and instead of using it to see to his capture, she uses it to sneak away for a quick shag.

That makes her a traitor. She tries to deny it, but in her heart, she knows it's true. Every life that he takes, every crime he commits…every wrong he does is on her, and has been since the second time they met, when she knew who he was but still followed him back to his hotel room instead of calling SHIELD.

There's just as much blood on her hands as there is on his.

If she were a good person—the person she _wants_ to be—she would turn him in. But as her mobile beeps with a text message, confirming the time and location of their planned meeting, she's already planning an excuse to leave the base for the night.

She's a terrible liar. She'll never be able to convince herself that she's anything less than a traitor.

The hotel this time is a very, very nice one. The lobby is grandly decorated, with marble flooring and high ceilings and majestic chandeliers.

Somehow, it feels worse meeting here than it did meeting at the pay-by-the-hour motel they used last time.

She bypasses the front desk and heads straight for the lifts, ignoring the dubious glance she gets from a bellhop. She doesn't fit here, she knows. SHIELD's budget has been reduced to basically nothing, in the wake of certain events, and she doesn't even get a salary anymore, let alone a stipend to replace clothing ruined by experiments. She and the other female agents—Ops and SciOps both—have started sharing clothes out of pure necessity.

The jeans she's wearing now are old, with a hole in one knee and the color faded from multiple washings. Combined with the shirt, which is slightly too small—not so much as to be indecent, of course, but it strains across her chest and the sleeves don't quite reach her wrists—she hardly looks the sort to be able to afford a room in a luxury hotel.

She lifts her chin and pretends not to notice the sideways looks she gets from the other guests as she enters the lift and hits the button for the appropriate floor. The state of her clothing is hardly her fault, and she refuses to let them make her feel badly for it.

And the fact that she's more embarrassed by the looks she's getting than by the fact that she's here to quite literally _sleep with the enemy_…well.

She pushes that aside as the lift reaches the fifteenth floor. He's in room 1519, according to the text message she received earlier, and she departs the lift and follows the sign pointing her to the right. Her heart speeds up a little as she walks, anticipation thrumming beneath her skin.

It's been three weeks since the last time. She's missed him terribly. Despite everything—everything he is and does and believes, everything that _she _believes and knows to be true—she longs for him when they're apart.

When she reaches room 1519, she barely has the chance to knock before the door opens and he pulls her inside. He closes the door quickly, locks it and pins her against it, and she's already stretching up to meet him as he lowers his mouth to hers.

She's a traitor and a horrible person. She can't lie to herself, so she simply has to face it. But here, pressed between the door and the steady, solid warmth of Grant Ward, it's easy to forget.

Things go wrong suddenly and unexpectedly.

One moment everything is fine—Jemma and Agent Singh are sifting through the rubble left in the wake of an explosion, searching for the alien device they believe caused it—and the next, they're surrounded by HYDRA agents.

Alongside the field agents who were sent to guard them, they're handcuffed and hauled out of the building, forced to kneel in the street. Agent Shaw puts up a fight, not unexpectedly, and is rewarded with a single bullet to the face. His second-in-command, Agent Jacobson, gets splattered with blood and brain tissue, and that's the end of their resistance.

"Anyone else wanna be a hero?" one of the HYDRA agents demands. They remain silent. "Good." He turns to one of the others. "Call it in."

"Sir," the other man agrees, and retreats to one of the SUVs parked nearby. He returns scant seconds later. "He's on his way."

Jemma keeps her head down, eyes locked on the pavement. Her mind isn't on the danger they're in, or on poor Agent Shaw. She's not worrying about Agent Singh, kneeling beside her and shaking with sobs, or about what comes next. She's thinking about what's come before.

Is this how Skye died? On her knees, forced to wait, knowing that she'd be dead soon? Or was she like Agent Shaw, fighting to the last? There's no way to be certain, as they never found her body.

She knows that Trip went down fighting—saw it with her own eyes, watched him throw himself between their retreat and their pursuers as they fled the Hub after it fell to HYDRA. May, on the other hand, never had a chance to fight: the enemy, smart enough to fear the Cavalry, sent a sniper after her. She was killed from two thousand yards away before she even knew she was in danger.

Like May, Coulson died early on. Searching for survivors in the wreckage of the Sandbox, he was shot in the back by a HYDRA agent who had played dead. Jemma wasn't there for that, was already safely confined in the Hub (before it, too, fell), but she read the report, after. She remembers it well, forcing her voice to stay steady as she read the words aloud and Skye sobbed on her shoulder.

Fitz. Oh, Fitz. She can't think of him, can't bear to remember the fate he suffered. He'd be ashamed of her, if he knew what she's done and with whom. He'd call her a traitor, and rightly so.

She'd be glad to hear it, though. She'd be so, so happy to have him look at her, face twisted with hate, and condemn her for her actions, because he would have to be alive to do it. She'd give anything to have Fitz back. Any of them, really, but Fitz especially.

They spend nearly two hours there, kneeling in the street, and that's how she passes it: thinking of the ones she's lost and how she lost them. She tortures herself with them, remembering better days and imagining how things could be if SHIELD had never fallen—if HYDRA had really died after World War II.

Agent Singh is still sobbing, but Jemma has no comfort to give her.

She doesn't know them, these people she works with now. They're not friends, as she was with her old team. They're friendly enough, and she respects them, but they're not _friends_. They're not _family_.

Her family is dead. There's only one person left in the world who makes her feel anything at all, and he belongs to the organization that will be killing her any moment now—if she's lucky.

If she's not lucky, she'll get worse than death. As scientists, she and Agent Singh are in more danger here than their field agent guards. They hold valuable knowledge, and if HYDRA is wise, it will attempt to get that knowledge from them before it crosses them off.

She's not religious and never has been, but she finds herself praying that HYDRA will not be wise.

After a long, long while, the person the HYDRA agents have presumably been awaiting arrives. All of the HYDRA agents snap suddenly to attention as yet another SUV—shiny and black and brand new, and she'd criticize them for the cliché of it all if not for the fact that SHIELD takes just as much joy in cliché, if not more—pulls up behind all the others.

Jemma looks up only briefly to take in the SUV, then returns her eyes to the ground. At this point, her best hope is that she won't be recognized. She (and Fitz) had quite the reputation in SHIELD, and since SHIELD was mostly HYDRA, HYDRA knows it well. If the HYDRA agents don't recognize her, she may be fortunate enough to get a quick death.

If they do, though…if they look at her and see Jemma Simmons, SHIELD prodigy, as opposed to just another random scientist…

She closes her eyes and swallows, trying to block out the crunch of gravel as someone approaches. The mysterious _he_, she presumes—the man they've spent the past two hours waiting for. He must be their superior, here to decide what to do with Jemma and the rest.

Don't let him recognize her, she prays. Don't let him know her…_or_ Agent Singh. Let them be dismissed as worthless and granted the quick death that will certainly be given to the field agents.

This is what her life has come to. She can't even muster up the optimism required to think that _any_ of them might make it out of this alive. The best she can hope for is a quick death.

The footsteps stop nearby.

"Sir," the HYDRA agent who shot Agent Shaw says. "The trap worked. Two scientists, seven field agents."

"Did you learn how to count from SHIELD, Bressler? I only see six."

Oh, no. Bressler's reply is lost in the wake of the sudden rushing in Jemma's head. Her heart leaps to her throat, and she swallows with great difficulty.

Let it be her imagination. Let it be her mind playing tricks on her.

Slowly, reluctantly, she opens her eyes and looks up.

It wasn't her imagination.

It's him. Tall and handsome, wearing the jeans and shirt and leather jacket she saw him put on less than twelve hours ago (after the shower they shared before they went their separate ways), the man she's been covertly seeing for nearly a year stands in front of Bressler.

She won't be getting a quick death.

Ward glances over as she looks up, and their eyes meet. Something passes over his face, too quick to identify, and then it blanks. He keeps his eyes (colder than she's ever seen them) locked on hers, though, as he speaks to Bressler, and his words hit her right in the solar plexus.

"Keep the scientists. Kill the rest."


	33. Books

A/N: anonymous said: "ward x simmons, books"

* * *

Grant is just finishing up chapter seven of _Street Without Joy_ when Simmons drops into the seat across from him. He glances up, ascertains that she doesn't appear to be in any kind of distress, and returns his attention to his book.

Thirty seconds later, he looks up again, because she's just sitting there _staring_ at him and it's kind of making him uncomfortable.

"Did you need something?" he asks.

She rests her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands. "You do a lot of reading, don't you, Agent Ward?"

"Uh, yeah," he says. "I guess so."

"What do you read?" she asks.

"Books," he says flatly.

"What sort of books?"

He sighs and, for lack of a better option, uses his napkin as a bookmark and closes the book, then sets it aside. He has a feeling, judging by the look on her face—a mix of (weirdly determined) friendliness and stubbornness—that she wants a conversation, and she's not going away until a) she gets it, or b) he scares her off.

Simmons doesn't scare easy. And, even if she did, he finds himself strangely reluctant to do anything that might upset her. So, conversation it is.

Still, there's no reason to make it easy on her.

"What are you doing, Simmons?" he asks.

She affects a completely unconvincing innocent expression. "What do you mean?"

"I mean we've got two days off in one of the most genius-friendly cities in the world," he points out, leaning back in his seat. "And you're here at this nowhere café with me instead of off somewhere geeking out with Fitz."

Simmons looks around the outdoor café thoughtfully.

"I don't know," she muses. "I think it's nice. It has…ambience."

She nods, firmly, as though that settles the matter, and Grant tries very hard not to find it adorable. As usual when it comes to Simmons, he fails miserably.

"Seriously," he says, forcing himself to focus. "Where's Fitz?"

"With Skye," she answers promptly. "Exploring."

Skye and Fitz alone in the city is a more than slightly troubling thought, and he briefly debates the merits of preparing bail money _now_, so he has it ready when he inevitably needs it. Then he looks at Simmons, at the sweet, slightly uncertain smile she's wearing, and discards the idea.

"And instead of joining them," he says. "You decided to track me down and ask me about the books I read?"

"I'll admit," Simmons sighs. "As far as conversation starters go, that was fairly dismal. Still, it got you talking to me, and thus, my objective has been achieved."

"So you tracked me down in a city of one hundred and ninety thousand people," he says. "To talk to me. Just…in general."

"Agent Ward," Simmons says, crossing her arms on the table and leaning forward. "We've been working together for nearly four months now. You've saved my life _several_ times. I shot a superior officer in the chest on your behalf. We essentially live together. And yet, I know little to nothing about you."

"Okay, and….?"

"_And_ I would like to rectify that," she says, slightly impatient. "I know you're not a _fan_ of teamwork, but it looks like we'll be stuck with one another for the foreseeable future. We might as well get used to it, don't you think?"

Her tone is brisk and slightly chiding, but he detects a hopeful undertone. He takes in her expression, the angle of her chin and the set of her jaw, and determines that all it would take to crush this idea of _bonding_ is a single sentence. One strongly worded reprimand and she'll leave him be—and probably avoid speaking to him for at least three weeks.

It should probably worry him that he's not even a little tempted. If it was anyone else, he wouldn't have let the conversation get even _this_ far, and if for some reason he had, he would _absolutely _have taken this opportunity.

But he's had months to come to terms with the fact that Jemma Simmons is the exception to a lot of his rules.

So, instead of scaring her off, he leans forward, mimicking her pose.

"What did you have in mind?"


	34. Jemma's parents are HYDRA AU

A/N: anonymous said: "can you perhaps write a short fic with Jemma's parents being high-ranking members of hydra?"

* * *

Jemma is sixteen when she meets Grant Ward for the first time.

He's on the specialist track and fresh out of the Operations Academy, where he graduated at the top of his class—a spot he earned in his first week and never lost. His file is full of commendations, awards, and broken records. He's a very promising recruit, in everything from hand-to-hand to espionage—a field where, his instructors say, he might even be able to match Romanoff one day. He has the potential to be one of the best.

And, of course, he's one of theirs.

He was brought to SHIELD by John Garrett, and—unusually, for a recruit—with full knowledge of HYDRA. He was theirs before he signed his admission papers. His psychological evaluations (the HYDRA-generated ones, that is; the SHIELD-generated ones tell an entirely different story) say that he is fiercely loyal to Garrett, and has followed him into HYDRA willingly.

It doesn't particularly bother HYDRA that they aren't his first loyalty. As long as he gets the job done, no one cares about the whys.

The first time they meet, Jemma herself is the job in question. She's a few months away from turning seventeen, and is in Bolivia—taking one last holiday before going into the SciTech Academy, at least in theory. (In practice, she's actually running tests on a potential chemical weapon at a HYDRA lab, hidden deep in the rainforest, but SHIELD is not to know that.) She's mostly on her own, and that's where Grant comes in.

Jemma's parents, Edmund and Adora Simmons, happen to be two of HYDRA's highest-ranking members—on the scientific and military sides, respectively. So when they become uneasy about their teenage daughter being left essentially alone in what they consider an unstable region, it's not difficult for them to have a few guards assigned to her.

Grant is one of those guards, and he's unquestionably her favorite.

He's stoic and stand-offish at first, but she doesn't have much trouble wearing him down. Soon enough, he's joking around with her—he has a tendency towards dry sarcasm that she finds delightful—and asking surprisingly astute questions about her work. He is, of course, far below her level, but she doesn't mind dumbing it down for him. It's nice to have someone so near her own age to speak with.

And, as a lovely bonus, he is _very_ nice to look at.

Of course, nothing happens between them. Not yet, at least—not in Bolivia. Their age difference, though it will be insignificant in a few years, is currently enough that should Grant lay a single finger on Jemma, not even John Garrett's influence within HYDRA will be enough to save his life—no matter how welcome the touch may be. She's miles beyond any others of her age, but, in the end, Jemma is still a teenager, and Grant is an adult (albeit a young one).

So, when Jemma's time in Bolivia is up, they part ways as merely friends. She doesn't forget him, though. No, he leaves quite the impression. And once she is reunited with her parents at the Sandbox, Jemma wastes little time in telling her mother about him.

Perhaps it's strange that Jemma's mother has always been her confidant, when she has so much more in common with her father. Jemma and Edmund share many things: intelligence, drive, a burning curiosity about the hows and whys of living things—yet it is Adora (whose interests lay mostly in violence) to whom she turns with her secrets.

And she's full to bursting with secrets about Grant Ward.

That night, when they're supposed to be packing the last of her things, they sit on Jemma's bed, Adora brushing her hair as she expounds on Grant's many excellent qualities. Her mother listens with a patience she reserves solely for Jemma, making interested noises and asking the occasional indulgent question. It's an old ritual between them, but something about Adora is strangely melancholy this time—perhaps because Jemma will be leaving for the Academy in the morning.

When Jemma has finished speaking and her hair has been brushed to a glossy shine, Adora sets the brush aside and wraps her arms around Jemma's waist, leaning forward to rest her chin against Jemma's shoulder so that their eyes can meet in the mirror above her dresser.

"Do you want him, darling?" Adora asks quietly.

Jemma leans her head against her mother's, thoughtful. "Yes. I believe I do."

"It can be arranged," Adora says. Her smile is fond, but sad. "If he meets our approval."

"He will," Jemma promises. "You'll see."

"I suppose we will," Adora murmurs.

She sits back, and Jemma twists to face her, feeling suddenly insecure.

"It may not be necessary," she admits. "I don't even know if he wants me."

"Of course he does," Adora asserts. "Why wouldn't he?"

"I don't know," Jemma says. She looks down, unable to meet her mother's eyes, and plucks at her quilt. "You know I don't—that is to say…"

"You haven't much experience," Adora completes. "Always more concerned with your books than with romance. You're like your father that way." She pauses. "And your mother, actually, although my focus was guns, not books."

Despite herself, Jemma can't help a pleased little smile. She does love being compared to her mother. It happens so very rarely.

"That's better," Adora says. She taps Jemma's cheek. "Look at me, dove."

With a sigh, she does.

"Darling, even if your father and I do approve of this _Ward_ of yours, it will still have to wait a few years," Adora tells her. "You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, Mum," Jemma says. "I know."

"Then here's what you should do," Adora says. "You're starting the Academy tomorrow. You'll be _surrounded_ by boys—and girls—of your own age. My advice to you is to have some fun."

"Mum—"

"Not too _much_ fun," Adora qualifies. "Nothing that will force me to arrange any _accidents_, of course. Just…date around a little, dove. Relationships are tricky and getting some practice can't hurt. Once you've got some experience—and you're a little older—if you still want Ward…" She taps Jemma's nose. "We'll see what we can do."

Jemma considers her mother's words for a long moment, then nods to herself. It's a perfectly logical plan. After all, it's possible that she's confusing basic attraction for something more—she has little to no experience with relationships, always having been somewhat isolated from others of her age, not to mention (as her mother said) far more concerned with science than anything else.

It will be years before she's old enough that a relationship with Grant won't be inappropriate. It's unlikely that her infatuation with him will last that long.

If it _does_…well, she'll cross that bridge when she comes to it.

x

The Academy is both everything and nothing that she's expecting. She dates around a little—or a lot—and has her fun with her classmates. She attends lectures and labs and does her homework with a sort of nostalgic enthusiasm—knowing that, after this, there will be no more homework for her (unless she decides to go for a third PhD). She maintains the top spot in her class the entire time and graduates in only two years instead of the usual five.

All of this she expects going in. What she _doesn't_ expect is Fitz.

Leo Fitz is the second youngest person at the Academy, being twenty-three days older than Jemma, and the only person who can match her. Once they get past the initial rivalry (which was, in itself, a somewhat entertaining experience), they become fast friends, and Jemma finds herself feeling distinctly odd around him.

It's nothing like she felt around Grant. There's none of the giddiness, none of the effervescent happiness that filled her chest and left her smiling constantly, whether he was present or not. Still, it's…nice. She's not attracted to Fitz, not at all. But she is very, very fond of him.

Jemma's had friends before, of course. Some have even been her own age. But Fitz is different. He's the first person she's ever met who can truly match her for intellect. Together, they're twice as smart as they are apart. And even though their areas of interest are entirely different, they mesh perfectly. Their collaborations are works of art, and when they need to work individually, they can still bounce ideas off of one another and be understood completely.

Jemma has had friends before. But Fitz is the first one she would actually _care_ if she lost. So she doesn't think she can be blamed for marking him down as a potential candidate for recruitment.

Not that there's anything to blame her _for_. Fitz is brilliant, and he'll be an excellent asset to HYDRA. If, that is, he can be turned. She doesn't know that he has the temperament for their work. However, it's not her job to determine that. Although she and Fitz graduate together—FitzSimmons, everyone calls them, and she does believe that that nickname is going to stick—and are all but promised that they'll be allowed to work together for as long as they wish, it won't be her job to turn him.

(The turning process is a long and delicate one, and Jemma doesn't have the time—or, frankly, the necessary subtlety—to carry it out. And in any case, it's mostly irrelevant. If turning him works out, excellent. If not—well, there's no reason he should ever know of her loyalties. HYDRA has no plans to come out of the shadows anytime soon.)

The point is, Jemma graduates from the Academy a mere two years after she starts. She leaves with a new best friend/partner, the admiration of all of her peers, and plenty of dating experience under her belt.

She also happens to still be more than halfway in love with Grant Ward.

It's far beyond infatuation. She knows that now. She's experienced infatuation, during her short time at the Academy. She's had crushes and relationships and one night stands. She's experimented with boys and girls and, on one distinctly memorable occasion which she will never be sharing with _anyone_, both.

And not a single one of them has managed to make her feel anything like Grant did.

Her parents, as highly ranked in SHIELD as they are in HYDRA, are allowed to come to her graduation ceremony (unlike Fitz's mother, who is a civilian and therefore not welcome), and Adora pulls Jemma aside once it's over, leaving Edmund and Fitz to get to know each other.

"Well, darling?" Adora asks, once she's finished gushing (in her own elegant way) about how proud she is. "Have you worked that specialist out of your system?"

"No, Mum," she says. "I took your advice and dated around, but…"

"But you still have your heart set on him," Adora concludes. She shakes her head a little, though she doesn't look displeased. "He's been making quite a name for himself, these past two years. He's already at Level Three."

"Really?" Jemma asks. Perhaps it's ridiculous that she's so _proud_ of him, when she barely knows him—it's been two years, he's probably forgotten her by now—but she is anyway. It usually takes new specialists _years_ to make it to Level Two, and that he's at Three already—!

"Really," Adora confirms. She glances at Edmund—currently deep in conversation with Fitz—and then back to Jemma. "Your father and I had occasion to meet him at the Hub a few months ago."

Jemma straightens, suddenly nervous. "And?"

"And we approve," she says plainly.

Jemma squeals a little (she honestly can't help it) and throws herself forward to hug her mother.

"I knew you would!" she exclaims. "Isn't he _amazing_?"

Adora laughs and hugs her back. "I wouldn't say _amazing_, dove, but…he's satisfactory. If you still want him—?"

"I do, Mum," Jemma confirms as she draws back.

"Then we'll see about arranging for the two of you to meet again," Adora promises. "It won't be easy—he's a bit beyond guard duty at this point—but I'll make it happen."

"Thank you," Jemma says, bouncing a little on her toes. "Truly."

"Oh, don't thank me," Adora says. She smiles and reaches out to smooth Jemma's gown. "I do believe you made an impression on that boy. He asked after you, you know."

"Really?" she breathes. She hesitates, feeling foolish, but can't resist the urge to ask, "What did he say?"

"Oh, he just asked if we were your parents," Adora says. "And, when we confirmed it, how you were doing. He was completely unsurprised to hear that you were graduating three years early and asked us to pass on his congratulations."

That strange giddiness—which she felt so often around Grant—rises in Jemma's chest, and she clasps her hands beneath her chin, barely resisting the urge to squeal again. She feels foolish and girlish and ridiculously young, but…

He _remembers_ her. He _asked about_ her.

That's something, isn't it?

x

It's another year before Jemma sees Grant again.

She and Fitz are stationed at the SHIELD base in Asmara, and have been for several weeks. She's not entirely certain _why_ they're in Asmara, nor why they were transferred away from the London base, but the lab is well-equipped and they have it entirely to themselves, so she doesn't mind.

They're not actually working on anything at the moment, just sitting at their workbenches and tossing paper back and forth as they brainstorm on their newest planned collaboration, which is why they actually hear the door open for once.

They both look over, and Jemma all but springs off of her stool.

"Grant!" she says, barely suppressing the urge to rush across the room and hug him. "How lovely to see you again!"

He gives her one of his little half-smiles, and Jemma's heart, for lack of a better term, _swoops_ in her chest.

"Nice to see you, too, Doctor Simmons," he says.

"It's _Agent_ Simmons now, actually," she corrects primly. "But I believe I've told you to call me Jemma."

"Right," he says. "My mistake. Jemma."

She beams at him, unable to help the rush that hearing him say her name gives her. It's more than a little foolish, but—well. Who could possibly blame her?

"Simmons," Fitz says, standing and joining her next to her workstation. "You know this person?"

"Oh, yes," she confirms. "Sorry, I should have—Fitz, this is Grant Ward. He guarded me once, when I went on holiday before I started at the Academy. Grant, this is my partner, Leo Fitz."

"Agent Fitz," Grant nods.

"Agent Ward," Fitz returns. He sounds a little sulky, but that's hardly a surprise—Fitz does tend to be a tad possessive of their friendship. "What are you doing here, then?"

"Be _nice_, Fitz," Jemma scolds, then turns to Grant. "Although, it is a good question. What brings you to Asmara?"

"You do," he says plainly, then flicks a glance at Fitz. "Both of you. I've been assigned to guard the lab."

She stares at him, confused. "But you're Level Three now, aren't you? Isn't guard duty a bit…"

"Below my pay grade?" he supplies with a little smirk. "Yeah. I'm on restricted duty." He shifts his left arm slightly, and she can spot the outline of a bandage beneath his (fetchingly tight-fitting) shirt. "Shoulder injury has me benched."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that," Jemma says, not entirely truthfully. She regrets that he's injured, of course, but who knows how much longer it might have taken to see him if he hadn't been placed on restricted duty? "Are you in much pain?"

"I'm fine," he dismisses. He shifts his arm again, and she notices (quite belatedly; she _is_ in trouble, with this one) that he's carrying a duffle bag. "Anyway, I just wanted to say hello, so..."

"Of course," she says. "I won't keep you." She hesitates, but remains in place, reluctantly deciding against hugging him. "Thank you for stopping by."

He nods. "See you tomorrow."

She watches him leave, feeling foolishly wistful (there's no need for it—he _just said_ that he'll see her tomorrow), until Fitz thumps her on the arm.

"What was _that_?" he demands.

She puts her strange longing aside and turns her attention to calming Fitz.

It's a long process.

x

Later that evening, Jemma runs into Grant in the corridor outside of her quarters.

"Oh!" she exclaims, startled, when she turns the corner and nearly walks right into him. "Grant! I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"It's fine," he interrupts quietly.

She shifts under his gaze, which is strangely intense and completely unreadable. She can't tell what he's thinking, and it has her on edge—in a not entirely unpleasant way.

"How did you know I'm Level Three?" he asks after a moment.

"My, um, my mum mentioned it," she admits, a little hesitantly. "She said you've made something of a name for yourself."

"Yeah," he muses. "I guess I have."

She doesn't really know what to say—is, to be honest, more than a little afraid that she'll give away just how much _interest_ she still has in him—so she doesn't respond.

She wonders whether it's just her imagination, or if the silence that stretches out between them really is as charged as she thinks it is. She knows what she's holding back—everything she's been wanting to say to him since she was sixteen and inexperienced—but what about Grant? Is he holding back anything at all? Or is that just wishful thinking?

Feeling suddenly awkward (and hating it), she opens her mouth to excuse herself, but closes it without saying anything when Grant abruptly steps closer. Closer than is strictly polite, really—close enough that she has to tip her head back to meet his eyes, and her mouth goes dry as she does so.

Slowly, carefully, and deliberately enough that she has plenty of time to step out of his reach if she so desires (which she _definitely_ does not), he slides one hand into her hair.

"I've been dreaming of this," he says, quietly intense. "For _years_."

Then he leans down and kisses her.

Jemma kissed her fair share of people during her time at the Academy, which means she's had her fair share of first kisses. She's had drunken first kisses, tentative first kisses, sweet and gentle and soft first kisses. And all of them combined can't compare to this one.

It's not tentative and it's certainly not soft. It's rough and desperate—almost harsh, even—and if Jemma had any doubts about Grant's claims of dreaming about this, this kiss would wash them away, because there are _years_ of pent-up desire behind it.

She matches him eagerly, wrapping her arms around his neck and going as far up on her toes as she can manage, and he makes a little noise against her mouth when she digs her fingers into his hair. He lifts her off her feet, then turns to the wall and pins her there, between cold stone and his warm body. She's glad for it—the way her head is spinning combines with the giddiness in her chest to make her feel completely weightless, like she might float away if not for the way his body presses into hers. The new angle is better—easier on her neck (and, presumably, his)—and she hums her approval as she lets him guide her to wrap her legs around his waist.

The kiss drags on for an eternity, or perhaps lasts only for an instant—she couldn't possibly say. All she knows is that when she finally—incredibly reluctantly—pulls away from him, her lungs are burning with the need for air. Her gasping breaths sound embarrassingly loud in the quiet hallway, but Grant doesn't seem to mind. He continues to kiss her, along her jaw and down her throat, pulling her shirt askew to nip at her collarbones, and it does _nothing_ to help her steady her breathing.

"Grant," she pants. He ignores her, sucking what is sure to be a very _obvious_ mark onto her neck, and she tugs at his hair. "_Grant_."

He sighs against her skin and pulls back to meet her eyes. Despite the interruption, there's nothing hesitant or uncertain about the way he looks at her—everything about him radiates a slightly smug sort of confidence, and she _really_ shouldn't find it as attractive as she does.

"Is there a problem?" he asks, in a tone which says he knows very well that there isn't.

"No," she says, and heroically resists the urge to kiss the smug smirk off of his face. She needs to focus. "Except for the fact that we're in the middle of the corridor and _anyone_ could stumble upon us."

"I'd hear them coming," he dismisses, and leans forward again.

She stops him with a finger pressed to his lips. "Still."

"So what do you suggest?" he asks, slightly impatiently.

"I _suggest_ that you carry me to the third door on the right," she says, and arches her back a little—just to watch the way his eyes glaze over when she rubs against him. "And let me show you my quarters."

He chuckles, low and _devastatingly_ attractive. "You used to be shy."

"I used to be sixteen."

"Trust me," he says, in a tone of deep pain. "I noticed."

"You wanted me?" she asks, although she's fairly certain of the answer, at this point. "Even back then?"

"You have no idea," he says. He glances down the corridor, then back at her. "Third door on the right?"

"Third door on the right," she confirms.

He presses closer and kisses her again before she can stop him—not that she tries very hard. It's much briefer, but no less intense, and she's once again breathless when he pulls back.

"If I take you to your bedroom," he murmurs, and his tone sends a very pleasant shiver down her spine. "How far are you gonna let me go?"

She grins at him, feeling giddy and happy and wonderfully reckless. It isn't that she never felt sparks with any of the other people she's had romantic encounters with, because she did—fairly often, in fact.

It's that with Grant, it's less of a spark and more of a bonfire.

"Take me there," she offers. "And find out for yourself."


	35. Jemma Suspects the New Neighbors

A/N: weasleyspotter said: "Person A suspect the new neighbors are serial killers. Person B attempts to placate them. Ward x Simmons"

* * *

"Our new neighbors are serial killers."

Grant pauses, then finishes closing the door. He locks it, drops his bag under the hall table, and takes a deep breath. Then he finally turns to face his girlfriend, who's standing in the living room and fairly vibrating with impatience.

"And why do you think that?" he asks. He's careful to keep his tone from being placating; she's been a little sensitive about that lately.

"We hardly _ever_ see them, they're closed off and unfriendly when we do, and," she crosses her arms. "Last night I saw the tall one carrying a suspiciously corpse-shaped bundle to his car."

"Jemma," he says. "Just because they're unfriendly doesn't mean—"

"They _clearly_ have something to hide," she argues over him. "And, again, _corpse-shaped bundle_!"

He tries not to sigh too obviously. This isn't the first time this month he's come home to be presented with some kind of conspiracy theory, and it probably won't be the last. He can't hold it against her: Jemma's bored, banned from work, and needs _something_ to do to keep her genius mind occupied. It's just really unfortunate that she's chosen spying on the neighbors as her method of keeping sane.

"There are a lot of things that can look corpse-shaped at night, Jem," he points out as he shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it up.

"Yes," she agrees. "Such as, for instance, _corpses_."

He kicks off his shoes, then, out of ways to stall, joins her in the living room. She's standing behind the couch, and he puts his hands on her shoulders and gently turns her around.

"If we're going to have this conversation, I need to sit down," he says, giving her a little nudge.

"Oh," she says, and allows him to steer her around the front of the couch. "Are you injured? You should have said! How bad is it?"

He sits at one end of the couch, where he can lean against the armrest, and tugs her down to sit beside him.

"I'm not hurt," he promises. "Just exhausted."

"Did you sleep at _all_ while you were gone?" she asks as she cuddles under his arm.

"Did _you_?" he asks pointedly.

"How could I sleep when there are _serial killers_ living next door?" she deflects.

"Jemma," he sighs. "You're not going to get better if you don't take care of yourself."

"Grant," she mocks. "This has nothing to do with me being ill and _everything_ to do with our neighbors being—"

"Serial killers, right," he says. He traces circles on her shoulders as he tries to think of a way to talk her down from this without offending her.

"It happens all the time, you know," she informs him. "The FBI estimates that at any given moment, there are up to fifty-five serial killers active in the United States."

She's quoting statistics. That's…not a good sign.

"Okay, I'm sure that's true," he says, although honestly that number sounds a little low to him. "But what are the chances that one—or more—of those fifty-five would move in right next door to us?"

"Good question," she says, oddly triumphant. "I'm sure they're asking _themselves_ what the chances are that they'd move in right next door to a _spy_."

Okay, she's got him there. He looks down at her, taking in her expression, and sighs again. He's not going to be able to talk her out of this one.

"As a spy," he says. "If I do some recon and come back and tell you that they're _not_ serial killers, will you take my word for it?"

"So long as you promise to _actually_ do recon," she says. "Rather than just pretending to in order to placate me."

Damn. Oh, well. An hour or two spying on what are undoubtedly two entirely normal, completely boring people isn't that much of a hardship. It'll definitely be a nice break, after what he just spent the last week doing.

"I will," he promises. Then he checks his watch. "If they're working at night, we've got at least six hours to kill before I need to get in position. Any ideas?"

She beams at him. "Well, for one thing, I owe you a welcome home, don't I?"

Before he can even agree, she's sliding back along the couch and pulling him with her. He grins. Her crazed, boredom-induced focus has its drawbacks (like this sudden obsession with spying on the neighbors), but he can't bring himself to regret it. Not when the benefits are so nice.

x

Eight hours later, he watches in disbelief as the couple who live next door carry what is undoubtedly a corpse out of their house and into their garage.

Jemma is _never_ going to let him live this down.


	36. Target Practice with Pigeons

A/N: sapphireglyphs said: "Ward x Simmons: Target practice with marshmallow shooter and the local kit of pigeons."

* * *

"A field team? Really?"

"Yes, really," Jemma confirms, for what must be the tenth time. "Fitz and I are joining a field team. We will be safe, we will have fun, and they'll have plenty of time to rebuild our lab."

"Uh-huh," Grant says. He's leaning attractively in the doorway, watching her pack, and she determinedly keeps her back to him. He's already _distracted_ her three times today; she can't afford another. "And how did your field assessment go?"

"Very well, thank you," she answers. Then she silently curses herself, because her voice just jumped an entire octave. _Why_ is she such a terrible liar? Four words! Four words, only two of them actually relating to his question, and she can't make them convincing?

That's just…embarrassing, really. Nearly as embarrassing as her field test itself.

"You wanna try that again?" he asks, amused.

"Oh, all right," she sighs. "I'll admit, it didn't go _very_ well, but…"

"But?"

"We very nearly passed," she says optimistically. "And really, how closely can they recreate _actual_ field conditions in a closed test like that? I think their method is—"

"So what you're saying is you failed it," he interrupts.

"Well….yes," she admits.

He sighs and says nothing. She continues her packing, but she's tense, now, waiting for the inevitable explosion. Grant takes her safety very seriously, and that she's going into the field without the proper training _and_ without him to watch her back—well, she's fairly certain this is about to turn into a fight.

She's wrong.

"Jemma," Grant says a few minutes later. There's barely contained laughter in his tone. "You _shot_ the examiner?"

She whirls to face him and finds him studying a tablet.

"Aced the written portion, of course," he mutters to himself, scrolling through something. "Nine minute mile, not bad. Strength t—"

"Grant!" she exclaims, finally finding her voice. "Are those—did you _hack_ the report on my field assessment?"

"Hack is a strong word," he says, looking up from his tablet. "I just pulled a few strings, that's all."

"That is—that is _private_," she snaps, crossing the room to snatch the tablet from his hands. He lets her take it, visibly amused (which does nothing for her temper). "It's _classified_, you can't just—"

"I can't check on my wife's field status before she goes into the field?" he asks mildly.

"Not by reading classified records, you can't," she says. "You could just _ask_ me."

"I did ask," he points out…which, admittedly, is fair. "And you lied—or tried to, at least." He takes the tablet back. "So, yeah, I'm gonna read the classified records."

She's not going to win this one, so she just throws her hands up and returns to packing. She does her best to ignore Grant's muttered commentary as he reads through the field assessment report, but it's difficult. Especially once he reaches the detailed account of the…incident on the range.

She knows the exact moment he reaches it, because he starts laughing. A lot. It's not his usual quiet chuckle—he's actually holding on to the doorframe for support as he nearly _wheezes_ with laughter. She hasn't seen him laugh like this in years, and it would be a lovely sight…if not for the fact that he's laughing at _her_.

She tolerates it for a few minutes, then storms back across the room to take the tablet away from him again. Then she whacks him on the arm with it.

"All _right_," she snaps. "So there was a slight mishap during my weapons certification. It is not _that_ funny!"

"It is," Grant disagrees, somewhat breathlessly. "It really, really is."

She's considering whacking him again, and it must show, because he straightens and clears his throat, swallowing down the rest of his laughter.

"It is that funny," he reiterates. She narrows her eyes at him. "But it's not that _bad_, Jemma. Your form, your stance—you've got the technicalities down. We just need to work on your aim."

"Oh, is that all?" she asks, a tad grumpily.

Grant smiles a little and takes the tablet from her, then tosses it across the room—where it lands safely on the exact center of the bed. Which is just showing off, really, and entirely unnecessary.

"Yeah," he says. "That's all." He takes her hand and tugs her out of the bedroom and into the living room. "Your problem is all in your head. You start thinking about it—about what shooting someone _means_—and you freak yourself out. It screws up your aim."

"So what would you suggest?" she asks, following him to the couch and dropping down next to him when he sits.

"Practice."

"Practice?" she echoes, incredulous. "_That's_ your expert advice? Do I really need to remind you of the report you just read—of what happened the _last_ time I practiced shooting?"

He clears his throat in a manner that suggests he's swallowing another laugh—a supposition supported by the strained quality of his voice when he answers.

"No, uh, no, I remember it." He clears his throat again. "But it's not _shooting_ you need to practice. It's aiming."

"I don't understand," she says.

"Look, your problem is that you're too connected to the consequences," he says. "You point a gun at someone—or something—and you start thinking about injury and fatality."

"And that's a bad thing?"

"No," he says. "It's not—in moderation. You always need to be aware of the potential cost of your actions when you've got a gun in your hand. But you can't let it consume you, or you'll never be effective."

"Okay, so…?"

"So, we need to disconnect you," he says. "Just a little. We need to get you used to aiming at something and pulling the trigger, without having to worry about hurting anyone."

"Isn't that the purpose of those paper targets that are shaped like circles instead of people?" she asks. "Because that ended…poorly."

"Usually, yeah," he acknowledges. "But I think we'll have to start a little smaller with you. We'll work our way up to the paper targets."

"How do you start smaller than shooting at paper targets with paint rounds?" she asks.

"Paint rounds are still bullets," he says. "Shot from a real gun. It's too close to the real thing for you. We need something that's _obviously_ not a weapon. Something that won't remind you of a gun at all."

She really has no idea where he's going with this. "Like what?"

He grins and stands, tugging her up after him.

"I'm glad you asked."

x

Three hours later, she finds herself in a nearby (relatively speaking, at least) park with a marshmallow shooter and several dozen targets—in the form of the pigeons who have apparently colonized the swing area.

She was skeptical when Grant first suggested the plan, but it turns out that he's right. Knowing that she can't cause any real harm with marshmallows keeps her from panicking, and there are no mishaps. She's able to hit what she aims at seven times out of ten (once she gets the hang of the marshmallow shooter, that is; it's really nothing like firing a gun).

By the time she runs out of marshmallows, she's managed to increase her accuracy, regularly hitting her targets (the poor, startled pigeons) four times out of five. Grant is both proud of her progress and amused by her glee over it.

"It won't translate directly to an actual gun," he warns her as they gather the marshmallows scattered around the park. "It's just the first step."

"I know," she assures him. "Still, it was fun." She deposits her bag full of dirty marshmallows into the bin next to the picnic tables, then brushes her hands off. "What _is_ the next step?"

"Bullseye targets," he says, throwing away the marshmallows he's collected. "If that goes well, hopefully we'll be able to move on to silhouette targets by the end of the week."

She hesitates. "I'm leaving on Saturday."

"I know," he says casually. "So we probably won't be able to fit in any sims, which is unfortunate. But as long as you have reasonable accuracy with the silhouettes, I'll call it a win."

She blinks at him, a little taken aback by his calm demeanor. This whole day has been a little bizarre. She was expecting a fight about her decision to accept a position on a field team, not shooting lessons with marshmallows.

She has a brief internal debate as he leads the way back to the car. It's not that she _wants_ to fight about this. It's just that his calm acceptance is entirely out of character, and she's concerned that he's bottling up his feelings about the topic. And _that_ never ends well.

She has to ask.

"You know," she says, as she buckles her seatbelt. "You've taken this much better than I expected."

He glances at her as he starts the car. "'This' being your decision to go into the field and put yourself at risk?"

"Yes."

"When I first heard about it—from Hill, by the way—I was furious," he acknowledges. "And I'm still not happy. But it's your choice, and I've got no room to throw stones after all the danger I've put myself in over the course of our marriage. Even without training, you're at a lot less risk in the field than I am."

She eyes him for a long moment, considering.

"Bobbi and Trip talked you down, didn't they?" she asks.

"Oh, yeah," he agrees. "We went six rounds in the ring before I came home. They helped me…work through my initial reaction."

She makes a mental note to buy something nice for Trip and Bobbi, because getting Grant past his initial, over-protective reaction can't have been easy. Then she considers their methods.

"Did anyone require hospitalization?" she asks, not entirely jokingly.

"They're fine," he dismisses. "No permanent damage."

Make that something _really_ nice.

"Comforting," she mutters, then frowns a little. "So you sparred all of your anger out?"

"Most of it," he says. "And I got some of the details on your team. Your specialist—"

"Marcus Wright," she recalls.

"Yeah. He's one of Garrett's other students. He's solid," Grant nods to himself. "He'll have your back."

Well, that's certainly an unexpected boon. It's been years since Grant worked with Garrett, but he still thinks the world of him. Of course having someone who trained under him assigned to the team's protection would be a comfort to Grant.

"Not to mention your pilot," he adds.

"What about her?" she asks, confused. "She's transferring from Administration."

He smiles to himself. "Yes, she is." At her expectant look, he laughs. "I think I'll leave that one as a surprise."

Jemma is not, generally, in favor of surprises, but she'll let this one go. It can't be anything too bad, if Grant is so amused by it. And she can tell, by the slightly smug smile he's wearing, that he won't be moved to share any more.

"So, we're all right, then?" she checks.

Grant drums his fingers on the steering wheel and takes a deep breath. Then he nods.

"We're good," he says. "I'm not crazy about the idea, but it's your career and your choice. Just promise me you'll be careful."

"I will," she promises. She really does owe Trip and Bobbi; she was expecting to fight about this for _days_ before he reached that conclusion.

"And if anything goes wrong, you know who to call," he says. "Screw orders and compartmentalization. We'll drop what we're doing and be there as fast as a Quinjet can get us wherever you are."

"I know," she says, and reaches across the console to squeeze his knee. "I'll keep it in mind, but it won't be necessary. You've nothing to worry about. You'll see."

He lets go of the wheel with one hand to cover hers on his knee and lace their fingers.

"And," she adds. "At least we know now that, should the situation call for it, I am well equipped to fire marshmallows at enemies."

He snorts. "Oh, yeah. You have no idea how many times I've needed to attack people with marshmallows."

"I imagine it's a near weekly occurrence for SHIELD agents," she says.

"It is," he nods, mock-solemn. "Which is why the shortage of marshmallow marksmen is such a problem."

"Well, not for my team," she says, and squeezes his hand. "We'll be just fine."


	37. Ward discovers Simmons is HYDRA

A/N: anonymous said: "Where we have Grant discovering Hydra!Jemma - Grant could be hydra, shield, etc"

* * *

After Coulson is rescued—after the twenty rounds of debriefing are complete—the team is put on downtime.

Coulson's injuries are severe enough that it will be weeks before he's fit to return to active duty—as are Grant's, for that matter. Which means that it will be weeks before the _team_ can return to active duty. There's no reason to keep them closed up on the Bus doing paperwork while Coulson recuperates, so they're ordered to return in January and dismissed to go their separate ways.

Grant doesn't bother to stick around long enough to learn what the rest of the team's plans are. He grabs his go-bag, gives his goodbyes, and catches a SHIELD transport to the nearest airport. Three commercial planes and a private jet later, he's walking through the front door of one of his safehouses.

It's a relief. He's been undercover this long before—longer, even—but it never gets any easier. Or, well, not _easier_—undercover work really isn't a hardship for him—but less annoying, maybe. No matter how good he is at pretending to be someone else—and he is _very, very_ good—it still wears on him. Wearing another persona like a coat tends to itch, after a while.

Especially _this_ persona. The loyal SHIELD agent version of him is uptight and mostly humorless, and Grant thinks he might actually have strained something in his face from all of the frowning he's been doing recently. He's been able to lighten up a little in the past month, acting like he's starting to warm up to the team, but still.

Usually he can find some fun in his covers, but the one he's been using for the past few months is just a drag.

Of course, he's been playing it for years—since he started at the Academy, basically—but that's where the frequent undercover work he's done has come in handy. He's been able to shed the Agent of SHIELD cover on a fairly regular basis in order to adopt _other_ covers, which has kept it from getting to him too much.

Not so this time. It's been a long, unbroken stretch of pretending to be morally solid and socially awkward, and he is, quite frankly, sick of it.

He's got four weeks before he has to adopt that cover again, and he's giving serious thought to spending the whole time right here in this safehouse. He might leave once or twice to go into the city and find some food or alcohol and maybe even some meaningless sex (it's been way too long), but otherwise, he thinks he'll stick close to home, where he doesn't need a cover.

Unfortunately, it's not to be. He's barely stretched out on the couch when the phone rings, and he groans. John's the only person who has the number, so it must be him.

Hoping he's not about to have to defend his recent actions (saving Coulson was admittedly counter-productive, but such is the nature of deep cover work), he stretches to grab the phone off the end table and answers it without sitting up.

"Yeah?"

"Grant," John greets him brightly. "How are you, son?"

"Exhausted," he says pointedly. "Did you need something?"

"Yeah, I'm gonna need you to come in," John says. "Sorry."

Grant doesn't bother mentioning how _not_ sorry John sounds. He sits up and scrubs his good hand over his face. He doesn't even remember the last time he slept—between the frantic three day search for Coulson, the debriefing, his inability to sleep on public transport, and the fact that he flew _himself_ for the last leg of his journey here…well, it's been a long time.

"Can it wait?" he asks.

"You can have a few days," John allows. "But I'll need you in Maribor by Monday."

He pauses. There's no SHIELD base in Maribor, but there is a HYDRA one. If he's being called to it…

"Is everything all right?"

"Yeah, fine," John says. "But I've just learned something _very_ interesting." Grant can hear the smirk in his voice. "You're gonna love this."

"Do I get a hint?" he asks, without much hope. He knows how John loves his games.

"No, this is the kind of news that should be shared in person," John says. "But trust me. It's worth the trip."

"Right," Grant sighs. He digs his sat phone out of his bag, just to check the date on the display, because he's entirely lost track at this point. "I'll be there in three days, then."

"Good man," John approves. "See you then."

"Yeah."

Grant hangs up and tosses both phones onto the end table, then collapses back onto the couch.

So much for vacation.

x

Three days later, he walks through the front door of the Maribor base at 0800. John's waiting for him in the lobby, and he greets him with a grin.

"Good to see you, son," he says, clapping Grant on the arm. "How've you been?"

"Would've been better without the gunshot," he answers, rolling his shoulder. "A sniper, John? Really?"

"Hey, you may be the _best_ one I've got, but you're not the _only_ one," John laughs. "And you have to admit it was a great shot."

It was. Perfectly placed, in fact—to inconvenience and pain him without doing any permanent, significant damage. It's not easy to avoid causing long-term injury with a gunshot to the shoulder, so Grant does appreciate the effort that had to go into it. The sniper shot he took on the bridge when Coulson was kidnapped was deliberate and well-aimed.

It still hurts like a bitch, though.

"Anyway, enough chatter," John says. "Let me show you what you're here to see."

"See?" he asks as he falls into step with John. "I thought you got new intel."

"I did," John agrees. He leads Grant over to the elevators and hits the button to summon the car. "And I could tell you, but it's probably better if you see it with your own eyes."

"Well, now you're starting to worry me," Grant says. It's not as much of a joke as his tone would suggest.

"Oh, it's nothing bad," John promises. "It's just…well, it's a doozy."

That's…kind of ominous, actually.

"Anyway, enough about this," John says. "You'll see when we get there. In the meantime—tell me what you know about this hacker of Coulson's."

He knows it's no use trying to get anything else out of John—once he declares a topic closed, it's closed. And if there's one thing Grant's good at (aside from violence and espionage, that is) it's patience. He'll find out what this is about soon enough.

So he obediently fills John in on Skye as they take the elevator up to the fifth floor, and as John leads the way through the labyrinthine halls. John's interest isn't particularly surprising—Skye is the only member of the team they don't have a full background and psych work-up on. She's the only real variable, and that makes her a threat, especially since she seems to have taken on the role of Coulson's protégé.

He's just finishing his report as they reach their apparent destination—the labs—and his voice dies on him midsentence, because his eyes immediately catch on what John obviously brought him here to see.

"No way."

"Yeah," John says, patting him on his good shoulder. "It shocked me, too."

Grant stares through the glass wall as Jemma Simmons bustles around the lab. She's obviously comfortable here—here, in the middle of a HYDRA base—moving around the room and fetching things from cabinets with an ease that speaks of familiarity with the lab's set up. She's displaying no hesitation and no signs of duress.

Which means she's here willingly. Which means…

"Simmons is HYDRA?" he asks. "Seriously?"

He's beyond stunned, but he's also _really_ impressed, because he had no idea. He never even _suspected_ that Simmons was anything less than entirely SHIELD loyal.

She's good.

"Yep," John grins. "Seriously. Told you it was a doozy."

"It wasn't in her file," Grant says, still watching her. She's reading something on a monitor, brow furrowed in concentration, and for the first time since meeting her, he doesn't force himself to put aside how attractive he finds her.

They're on the same side. It presents some…interesting possibilities.

"She's in the science division," John says. "We didn't know." He chuckles ruefully. "You know what they say about too many heads."

Grant finally looks away from Simmons to raise an eyebrow at John. "Was that a hydra joke?"

"Couldn't resist," John shrugs, unapologetic. "It was too perfect." He claps his hands. "So, you gonna go say hi?"

"You know," he muses, looking back through the windows. "I think I will."

"Great!" John says. "I'll leave you to it, then. I'll be on fifteen when you're done."

"Understood," Grant says, and enters the lab as John walks away.

"I'll be with you in a moment," Simmons says, attention still focused on the monitor. "I'm nearly finished."

"That's okay," he says, and watches with amusement as she freezes. "I can wait."

She spins to face him, eyes wide. They quickly narrow, and he can practically see her mind working as she looks him over—taking in his casual clothes and relaxed posture. He can see the moment she determines that he's not a prisoner here any more than she is.

"Ward," she greets him calmly. "You're HYDRA?"

"Yep," he says. "And so are you."

"Yes," she agrees. She frowns at him. "You might have said."

"I didn't know," he admits easily. "The file I got on you before the assignment didn't mention your allegiance."

"Well," she says. "That was certainly sloppy of someone, wasn't it?"

"That's one word for it," he says. "Fitz?"

"Entirely SHIELD," she answers, tone slightly mournful. "I've attempted to recruit him, but…well. He's not suited for this work, I'm afraid."

"I would've said the same about you," he says, watching her face. "You're a much better liar than I thought."

"Oh, no," she disagrees. "I'm a terrible liar. It's just a matter of…remembering my lines, so to speak." She smiles. "And, luckily, when I slip, people assume that it's simply my scientific curiosity getting the best of me."

Now that she mentions it, he does remember a few times that she's said something to give him pause. And, like she says, he always dismissed it as her enthusiasm getting ahead of her mouth.

She really is good.

"So what's your play?" he asks.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, why are you on Coulson's team?" he clarifies. It can't be that she was assigned to discover the secret of Coulson's resurrection, as he was. HYDRA missing that two of their agents are on the same team? Unlikely, but apparently possible. HYDRA missing that two of their agents were given the same mission? No way.

"Ah," she says. "I don't…actually have one."

"Really," he says flatly. "Because the way I heard it, it was _your_ idea to leave the lab, not Fitz's."

"Oh, it was," she confirms. "What I meant was, I don't have a specific goal. The aim was to get me out of the lab, not on the team." She makes a vague gesture towards the computer. "SHIELD assigned me to work on finding a counter for a particular chemical weapon which HYDRA does _not_ want neutralized. I could hardly refuse to work on it, so HYDRA saw to it that I was transferred into the field and the assignment given to someone less…capable than I."

"Makes sense," he says. "Though, they could've found you something a little less dangerous."

"Oh, it's not been so bad," she says. "Actually, it's been quite fun, getting out into the field for once." Her attention is drawn back to her computer when it beeps, and she continues in a slightly distracted tone as she taps at the keyboard. "What about you? What brings you to Coulson's team?"

He hesitates. Just because they're on the same side (technically, at least; he's always been more concerned with Garrett than HYDRA itself) doesn't necessarily mean he can trust her with his orders. One word to the wrong person, intentionally or not, and she could blow the whole op.

But she's a genius, and it's not like his mission is all that hard to guess. She'll probably figure it out even if he doesn't tell her.

And Garrett brought him here for a reason. He could have just as easily _told_ Grant about Simmons, instead of bringing him all the way to Maribor to see her with her own eyes—and, more importantly, be seen by her. Knowing that Simmons was HYDRA when she didn't know the same of him would have been an advantage; Garrett wouldn't have him give it up without a good reason.

"Coulson," he says finally. "I was put on the team to find out how he survived New York."

She turns away from the computer to frown at him. "Is it that much of a mystery? Resuscitation a few seconds after death isn't _that_ unusual. What makes Coulson so special?"

"He wasn't dead for a few seconds," he answers, after the briefest hesitation. "His heart was torn completely in half when he was stabbed. He was dead for _days_."

"That's not possible," she says flatly. "It's—it's completely beyond _all_ medical…"

"Yeah," he says, as she trails off into a frustrated gesture. "Hence my orders to figure out how it is he's up and walking around."

She stares at him for a long moment, gauging his sincerity. He spreads his hands innocently, and she shakes her head, apparently accepting it.

"Remarkable," she mutters, and turns back to her computer. "Although it certainly explains Centi…"

She trails off again, staring at the computer screen, but he's pretty sure she's not seeing it. Again, he can almost _see_ her mind making connections, taking the tiniest pieces of the puzzle and building the whole picture from them.

It's…really hot.

He's always thought so, has enjoyed watching her think her way through the scientific aspects of the various cases they've gotten over the last three months, but knowing they're on the same side makes it even better. He can stand here and appreciate the way her brow furrows, the way her fingers tap absently on the counter as though keeping time with her thoughts, without forcing himself to set his attraction aside as a never-gonna-happen.

Finally, she turns to face him again.

"You're with Centipede," she says, with quiet certainty. "Aren't you?"

"Guilty," he shrugs. He scans her face, evaluating her reaction. "Is that a problem?"

"Centipede intends to determine by what means Coulson was brought back to life so that it can use the same procedures on its soldiers, does it not?" she asks, ignoring the question. "Thus giving HYDRA an entire army of super-soldiers who are essentially immortal."

"Pretty much," he says. There's no need to bring his own, more personal, investment in the assignment. "So? Do we have a problem?"

"Not at all," she says. "Although I _would_ like a word with whoever decided that the best way to resolve the Centipede serum's explosive side effects was to extract a pyrokinetic's platelets, I'm assuming that wasn't _your_ call."

"No," he agrees, amused. "I wasn't consulted on that." He leans against the nearest lab table and crosses his arms, ignoring the painful pull in his shoulder. "I take it you disapprove?"

"Although apparently effective, it was an inelegant solution," she sniffs. "Given half the chance—and an uncorrupted sample of the serum—I'm sure I could have done much better."

"Of course you could," he says, barely holding back a smile. He doesn't doubt it, after some of the miracles he's seen her pull off, but that fact that her sensibilities have been offended by the manner in which Centipede's scientists solved the problem of soldiers _exploding_…

It's cute. _She's _cute. He likes this version of Simmons even better than the one he's been working with.

He wants her. He's wanted her for _months_. He's wanted her since the day they met, when she shoved a swab in his mouth without so much as a 'please' and then asked if he was excited about their _journey into mystery_, for Christ's sake. And now it turns out that the only reason he had for not pursuing her—namely, their conflicting loyalties—doesn't actually exist.

There's no reason not to make a move. But he thinks he should give it some time, get a feel for what she thinks of him—the _real_ him, not the boring cover he's been wearing around her. And the best way to do that is to spend time with her. Luckily, he's got an excellent excuse to do so.

"You know," he says. "Chances are, whatever they used to bring Coulson back is going to go way over my head. I might not even know it if I see it."

She tilts her head, scrutinizing him. "Agent Ward, are you asking for my help in completing your mission?"

"I am," he admits easily. "Are you accepting?"

"Yes," she says. "I believe I am." She gives him one of her bright, lovely smiles. "It should be fun, don't you think?"

"Yeah," he says, and watches her turn back to her computer once more. "I'm sure it will."


	38. MayWardSimmons Angst

A/N: anonymous said: "I mean, I'd really like to read some of this May/Ward/Simmons angst. If it's on offer. Please."

(**trigger warning** for attempted suicide)

* * *

He slits his own wrist with the button off of his trousers. Jemma saves his life. Her hands are steady, but only because Melinda is right there in her peripheral vision the whole time. Ostensibly, it's to protect Jemma, in case this is just a trick—some bizarre attempt at murder-suicide.

In reality, she knows, it's because Melinda understands.

There's no way she could do this alone.

x

He's given new clothes: hospital scrubs, with no buttons or ties or zips to be turned into weapons. It doesn't stop him.

He takes a page from one of his books, folds it razor sharp, and slits his other wrist.

Jemma saves his life. Her hands are steady. Melinda is silent.

x

His books are taken away, as are all of the other scant comforts he was given. The only thing left in his cell is furniture, and all of it is bolted to the ground.

He throws himself into the walls.

Jemma saves his life, but Melinda isn't on-base at the moment. Trip stands guard instead. Her hands shake.

x

She's told that he's different after coming out of sedation in the wake of his third attempt—quieter, more settled. All she cares about—as she tells the Director—is that the suicide attempts stop.

They do.

x

Melinda gets sent on a mission. Jemma kisses her goodbye and wishes her luck, even though a large part of her would like to beg Melinda to stay. The Playground feels colder without her, less like a safe haven and more like a prison, and Jemma has enough problems already.

But she's a SHIELD agent, not a child, and Melinda has more important things to do than play security blanket. So she promises she'll be fine and sends Melinda on her way.

The first few hours are fine. Things with Fitz are tense, because certain things were said and cannot be unsaid, and other things were done by a man that Jemma let not only into her bed but into her heart, and that's a guilt that will never go away. But it's been weeks, now, and she's learnt to live with the new way of things between them, as much as she hates it.

So the first few hours are fine.

She's just finishing up a Skype session with some of their field agents in Brazil, who sent her a sample for analysis—yes, it's Asgardian; no, it's not dangerous; do you really want all of the details or are you just going to ask for it in English as soon as I'm finished? Then just trust me when I say it's not dangerous—when Billy Koenig pops in to say she's wanted in the Director's office.

That's about when her day becomes horrible.

"I'm sorry, sir," she says evenly. "Could you repeat that, please?"

Coulson, to his credit, looks sincerely apologetic. "I need you to go down to the Vault and speak with Ward."

She presses her lips together and frowns down at her hands. She and Melinda never say his name any longer. On the—very few—occasions he gets mentioned, they stick to pronouns. Which is silly, and she knows it, but saying and hearing his name is…painful. It makes her think of earlier, happier days—of their playful squabbles over what to call one another (because they were all so used to addressing each other by their surnames, and that might work for basic sexual encounters, but if they were going to give an actual _relationship_ a try it was just odd)—and she does her best to forget those days ever happened.

Jemma is hurt and Melinda is furious. (And Jemma is furious and Melinda is hurt, but it's easier to remain in their usual emotional corners, for this one.) He's a sensitive topic.

"Sir, I don't know—"

"I wish we had another option, Simmons," he interrupts. "But the Serbian team needs this information, and he's insisting he won't speak to anyone but you or May."

"And…" She worries at her lower lip for a moment. "Have you spoken to Melinda about this?"

It's only recently that Melinda and Coulson have mended fences, and Jemma doesn't want to be the cause of a resurgence of bad feelings. In this situation, however, they seem inevitable. Melinda has been somewhat over-protective of her lately (more so than usual, that is, and for entirely understandable reasons) and Jemma can't imagine her being happy about this.

"No," Coulson admits. "And I know exactly how she's going to take it." He shrugs. "If she was here, I'd send her. But she's on the other side of the world and the team in Serbia is running out of time."

Jemma hesitates, twisting her hands in her lap. Of course she wants to do anything she can to help, and she doesn't want any harm to befall the Serbian team, but…

It's not just that she doesn't want to see him (although she really, truly doesn't). It's that this will create a precedent. If they give in to his demand this time, he'll know that they're willing to negotiate. What's to stop him from demanding their presence every single time Coulson interrogates him after this?

Saving his life while he was unconscious was one thing, and it was hard enough. She doesn't know that she has the strength to speak to him—to look him in the eye—and she definitely doesn't have the strength to do it more than once.

"Simmons," Coulson says, and his face is sympathetic but his voice is not. "We don't have a choice." He leans forward. "I won't make it an order, but I'm _asking_ you to do this. Please."

She thinks it would be easier if he _did_ order her, but doesn't say so. Instead, she simply nods.

"Yes, sir," she says. "Shall I go now, or…?"

"Yeah," he says, sitting back. "The sooner the better."

She nods again and stands.

"Yes, sir," she repeats. "You need to know whether there's any HYDRA presence in Serbia?"

"That's right," he confirms. "Any bases or outposts, agents, on-going operations." He waves a hand. "Whatever. Someone is interfering with the Serbian team's mission, and I need to know if it's HYDRA or someone else."

It would be easier if she knew exactly what sort of mission the team in Serbia _has_, but he's already made it clear she won't be receiving that information, so she doesn't bother asking. Instead, she quietly excuses herself and heads for the Vault.

It's an unfortunately familiar route, after the three times she's been down to save his life. She's never gone alone before, however, and her hands are shaking long before she reaches the door. She balls them into fists for a moment, trying to calm herself.

He can't get through the barrier. Coulson had her check the cell before it was put into use, and she knows every inch of its defenses. There are weaknesses, but only on the outside. There's nothing he can do from inside of it. He can't hurt her.

Not any more than he already has, at least.

She could spend all day lingering outside the door if she let herself, but time is of the essence, so she takes a deep breath and pushes it open. The barrier is currently opaque, hiding him from view, and it makes it easier to fully enter the Vault and descend the stairs.

The tablet that controls the cell is on a stand next to a chair right in front of the barrier, and she hesitates once again. She doesn't want to see him. Melinda is going to be so cross.

But just as it was Melinda's duty to leave, it's Jemma's duty to do this. Lives are at stake.

She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and reminds herself again that he can't hurt her. Then she picks up the tablet and switches the barrier to transparent.

He's sitting on his bed, leaning back against the wall, but he straightens as their eyes meet. He stands and approaches the barrier at once, and she considers it a victory that she manages to resist the urge to back away.

She remembers saving his life. She remembers him saving hers. She remembers him saying _have it your way_ and _I'll give Melinda your regards_ and _don't worry, she'll be joining you soon_.

Oh, God. She doesn't know if she can do this.

"Jemma," he says, and gives her an unsettlingly gentle smile. "I wasn't expecting you."

She swallows reflexively, sees him note it, and lifts her chin.

"You said you would speak to me," she says. There's a quaver in her voice, and she hates it nearly as much as she hates him.

"Or Melinda," he adds, and tilts his head. "She must be on an op. Has she been gone long?"

The easy question sparks anger in her. He has no right to mention Melinda—to say her name so casually, as though he has any claim on her—as though he actually _deserves_ to be in the same room as her.

Since his betrayal, Jemma has had nightmares. She's cried and shouted and thrown things. She has mourned and hated him in equal measure, and she has not been subtle about it.

Melinda has been beside her every step of the way. She comforts Jemma after nightmares, holds her through her tears, and helps her redirect her anger into more productive actions. She does no dreaming, crying, or shouting of her own.

The average observer would never guess that Melinda has been affected by the betrayal, too.

But she has.

Jemma is _not_ the average observer, and she can see it in every move Melinda makes. She can see it in how she hovers in the lab while Jemma and Fitz work, how she puts Skye through her paces in training, how she watches the Director with assessing eyes.

She can see it in the suspicion Melinda holds towards the other agents in the Playground—in the careful way she keeps track of them, never relaxing in their presence, and subtly discourages them from getting anywhere near the members of the original team (especially Jemma). She saw it on the one occasion they left the Playground together, when Jemma had to go into the field and Melinda never left her side—not even to secure the perimeter.

And she can _feel_ it in the difference in the way Melinda touches her. She's somehow more possessive and gentler at the same time, as though Jemma is fragile and precious and might be snatched away at any moment.

Melinda is suffering just as much as Jemma is. She's just more subtle about it.

And all of that suffering is because of _this man_, this man who smiles at her and expects Melinda's presence as though he has any right to her at all.

Anger is better than fear; she grasps at it and holds it close, lets it burn away the chill the sight of him put in her bones, and _uses_ it the way Melinda taught her.

"You said you would speak to me," she repeats. This time, her voice is perfectly even. "So speak. You know what I want to know."

His smile widens into something sharper. "Why don't you remind me?"

"Serbia," she says. "What do you know of HYDRA's movements there?"

"A bit," he says. "You look good. I like your hair."

She tightens her hold on the tablet, clamping down on the reflexive urge to touch her hair. She also bites back a comment about how she'll be changing it tomorrow, then, or that she doesn't care what he thinks of it. Engaging with him will only encourage him. She needs to keep him on-topic.

The sooner she gets her answers, the sooner she can leave.

"Tell me what you know about HYDRA's movements in Serbia," she orders.

"Ask me nicely," he says.

The words, as they're likely meant to, bring to mind another time—an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room, his hands wrapped around her wrists, a wicked grin on his face and Melinda's low chuckle in her ear. A stolen few hours in Providence, before Melinda left and he revealed himself as a traitor and their entire world fell apart, when they were simply relieved to be together, that she made it out of the Hub alive and he made it out of the Fridge and Melinda hadn't been killed for what Coulson saw as her betrayal.

It was a good time—the _last_ time—and thinking about it hurts. She bites the inside of her cheek, attempting to keep her face blank. She's fairly certain she fails.

"Tell me what you know," she repeats. She does not add _please_.

"Or what?" he asks.

Her eyes flit down to the tablet. She can control the entire cell from it. Not just the barrier, but the lights and the temperature, too. And the airflow.

She could cut off his oxygen, as a threat. It would be poetic justice, wouldn't it? To do to him what he did to Fitz? She could stand here and watch him struggle, see him learn the panic she felt, those hours trapped in the storage pod. She could teach him a lesson he would never forget, wipe the lingering smile from his face—and no one would say a word against her. She wouldn't face any trouble for it.

But it would be cruel, and Jemma is not cruel. More importantly, she won't let him _make_ her cruel.

"Or I'm leaving," she says simply.

"You'll be leaving anyway," he points out.

She has nothing to say to that. It's the truth, after all. She's not staying a moment longer than she needs to. She's also not going to threaten him _or_ offer rewards for answering her question. Her presence was an unreasonable enough demand; she shudders to think what else he might ask, if given the opening.

"Tell me what you know about HYDRA's movements in Serbia," she says once more. "I won't ask again."

He sighs and crosses his arms. "There's a base in Belgrade. Small, barely staffed. Forty foot soldiers, one field commander."

"That's all?" she asks, surprised.

"It's an unstable region," he says, and shrugs. "The chances of HYDRA's people getting caught in the crossfire are pretty high. Too much risk, not enough reward." He eyes her. "What's SHIELD up to there, anyway?"

Even if she knew, she wouldn't tell him.

"A base in Belgrade," she says instead. "Anywhere else?"

"There are outposts in Vranje and Uzice," he says. His eyes move over her face, looking for—what? She has no idea. "Three two-man teams each."

"And that's all?" she asks.

"That's all."

"Fifty-three HYDRA agents," she says. "In all of Serbia."

"Last I checked," he says, spreading his hands. "I've been out of touch for a while, you know."

Her eyes fall to the scars on his wrists, so clearly on display with his hands spread—her handiwork and his. Something twists in her stomach.

"Should I thank you for this?" he asks quietly, apparently following her gaze.

"That depends," she says. She barely recognizes her own voice. "Are you grateful?"

"I lived long enough to see you again," he says, and his tone makes the back of her neck prickle. "That's something."

She tears her eyes away from the scars to meet his gaze, and her mouth goes dry. It's focused—intent—and for a moment, she's frozen in place by it.

Then she shakes her head and steps back. She has what she came for.

"You're leaving now," he says, as she returns the tablet to its stand and turns away.

"Yes."

"It was nice seeing you," he tells her as she heads for the stairs. "But next time, you should bring Melinda."

"That won't be happening," she says. She'd like to say that there won't be a next time, but she has the unfortunate feeling that there will be. They've created a precedent, here, and he's sure to take advantage of it.

"We'll see," he says, and something about the words gives her pause.

She turns slightly to look at him over her shoulder. "What does that mean?"

"Anything's possible," he muses. "If you're desperate enough." He raises his eyebrows and gives her a little smirk. "Someday soon, you're going to be very, very desperate."

"What are you talking about?" she demands, turning back to face him properly.

"I'm done talking," he says, and turns away.

He walks away from the barrier, back over to his bed, and she takes a few steps away from the stairs before she can stop herself.

"No, you're not," she snaps. "Tell me what you meant."

"Why don't you come in here and ask me," he invites, sitting on the edge of his bed.

For a moment, her voice fails her. He smirks at her again.

"Didn't think so," he says.

She should stay and ask more questions, because somehow she knows his words about desperation aren't empty. He _knows_ something, or he's planning something, or—something. She needs to find out what that was about.

But she's used up all of her anger, and there's nothing left but fear and grief. She can't bear to stay any longer. She'll give her report to Coulson and let him worry about the rest. She wants to go back to the lab, back to her science and to Fitz and the work she's actually _trained_ for.

She'd also very much like a hug from Melinda, but she knows she'll be waiting for a while on that one. Even once Melinda returns, there's bound to be shouting before any hugging occurs. She won't be happy to learn that Jemma has ventured down to the Vault, orders or no.

She leaves the Vault without another word.

It's just her imagination, just her mind playing tricks on her, and she knows it. But she would swear she can feel his eyes on her long after she leaves.


	39. I did a pregnancy test

A/N: anonymous said: "Biospecialist + Skye, "I did a pregnancy test.""

* * *

"Simmons! I've been looking _everywhere_ for you, what are you doing in…"

Skye trails off as soon as she gets a good look at Jemma, because the question she was about to ask (what are you doing in a closet) has a very obvious answer: crying.

Jemma is curled in a little ball in the corner, knees pulled to her chest and forehead pressed to her knees, like she's trying to make herself as small as possible. Skye did her own fair share of hiding in closets like this, back when she was still getting passed around the foster system, and seeing Jemma do it kind of makes her want to shoot someone in the face.

(She could do it, too. She's been training with May and her aim is way better now.)

"Jemma," she says, and crouches in front of her. "What is it? What's wrong?"

It's not like there's a shortage of options. Between the problems they're all facing—agency in pieces, declared terrorists, limited resources, identities erased by Skye herself—and the ones Jemma has that are all her own—best friend brain damaged and refusing to speak to her, husband a murdering douchebag traitor currently locked in a cell in the basement—she's got every right to be crying right now.

That doesn't make it any less horrible—or surprising. Skye hasn't seen Jemma cry since she was dying from the Chitauri virus, and even that was only a few tears, not all out sobbing. Even after the whole kidnapping thing, when Skye had to tell her everything her asshole of a husband had said and done, she never cried. At the time, Skye thought the whole quietly-miserable-stiff-upper-lip British thing she did was worse than seeing her cry would have been.

Now, she'd call it even. It's all equally awful and horrible and painful.

"_Jemma_," she says, again, when Jemma doesn't answer. "Come on. Tell me what's wrong. I'm not gonna go away until you do. And I could sit here all day. I'm very persistent." Jemma doesn't move. "I mean, I'm gonna get bored, though. I'll have to do something to keep myself occupied. Like sing. Don't make me sing, Jemma. I'll do it, I swear I will."

Jemma makes a weird little sound, somewhere between a sob and a laugh, and finally looks up. Ha! Skye _knew_ that would work.

But she can't even properly enjoy being right, because seeing Jemma's face all tearstained and sad is even worse than seeing her do the hiding thing. Skye barely keeps herself from hugging her.

Answers first. _Then_ hugging.

"I don't," Jemma presses her lips together. "I don't know if you want to hear this."

"Ah, I get it," Skye says. Her thighs are starting to hurt from the way she's crouching, so she shifts to sitting next to Jemma, leaning back against the shelves. "Something to do with the psycho in the basement?"

It was May who pointed out to her that Jemma's been really careful not to talk to her about Ward. Like she feels guilty for everything Ward did to Skye and doesn't have the right to bring him up. Which is _exactly_ the kind of ridiculous thing Jemma would think.

For a genius, she can be really dumb sometimes.

"Yes," Jemma says quietly.

"Then maybe I don't wanna hear it," Skye admits, because Ward might have been Jemma's husband, but he was also Skye's SO, and the betrayal hurts nearly as much as it pisses her off. "Tell me anyway."

Jemma takes a deep breath. "I did a pregnancy test."

"Oh," she says. "I…wow."

It's not often Skye is speechless, but…seriously. Can't any of them catch a _break_ already?

"What," she swallows. "Was it—was it positive?"

Jemma nods and hides her face in her knees again with a little sob.

She has no idea what to say. Maybe there's nothing _to_ say. She doesn't think there are any platitudes for this kind of thing, when your best friend finds out she's been knocked up by a man who tried to kill her (and you).

So she just wraps her arm around Jemma's shoulders and rests her head against hers.

Sometimes the only thing that helps is knowing you're not alone.


	40. Come home with me

A/N: lindewen said ""Come home with me" with Ward x Simmons"

* * *

It's been a _very_ long day, but Jemma isn't at all tired.

She's too excited to be tired. After _months_ of waiting, her application to work at Tempest Industries has finally been accepted. She has no idea what took so long—at the risk of sounding arrogant, she had two PhDs by the time she was seventeen; what more could they _possibly _want—and while she can't precisely say that she doesn't _care_ (because she absolutely does)…

It doesn't matter. She's too happy to worry about it—about _anything_—tonight.

In that vein, she's glad to accept the invitation from some of her uni friends to go out. They've been teasing her about finally being old enough to drink since her birthday two weeks ago, and her new job gives them the excuse to take advantage of her changed legal status they've been wanting.

That they abandon her less than two hours in is completely unsurprising and not the least bit upsetting. She knew it would happen and doesn't mind at all; she's already found company which is—if not better—significantly more attractive.

His name is Grant and he's the most gorgeous man she's ever seen. Any person in this bar attracted to men would be grateful to have his attention; that he's sharing his time with her is enough to take this day from amazing to spectacular.

(It's possible she's tipsy, but to be fair, so is he.)

They've been dancing—for certain values of the word _dancing_; grinding would probably be a more accurate term—for nearly half an hour when he leads her off the dance floor and over to the bar.

"I don't know about you," he half-shouts (which is necessary in order to be heard over the music), "But I could use some water."

"Water sounds lovely," she shouts back. She's feeling flushed and breathless and gloriously _alive_, at the moment; some of her hair is stuck to her temples from sweat, and she would swear her whole _body_ is throbbing in time with the beat of the music.

She feels _amazing_, and it's very little to do with the alcohol she's consumed.

Grant orders two bottles of water from the bartender and pays for them both before she has the chance to even reach for the notes she has stuffed in her pocket. She starts to protest, but he just hands her a bottle and smiles.

"It's on me," he says, and _that_ certainly paints a lovely mental picture.

They try to exchange conversation as they drink their water, but between the crowd and the music, it's far too loud. Eventually, he shakes his head and offers her his hand; when she takes it, he tugs her away from the bar and towards the door. She follows happily, because while she still feels amazing, the noise is starting to get to be a little much.

"That's better," he says, once they've exited the club. "What do you think about going somewhere quieter?"

The night air is cool, and it does a bit to clear her head—enough so that the _what ifs_ and _maybe nots_ she always thinks up when faced with an attractive man are making themselves known.

But this is a happy day—a _spectacular_ day—and she doesn't want to be bothered with doubts right now. So, before she can second guess herself or talk herself out of it, she reaches up, wraps a hand around the back of his neck (he's so much _taller_ than she is), and tugs him down as she surges up onto her toes to meet him in a kiss.

For a moment, he doesn't respond, and she has just long enough to think _oh, no_—then he moves, wrapping an arm around her waist and sliding his other hand into her hair as he deepens the kiss. Her whole body is buzzing, from the alcohol and the kiss and just from _him_ in general, and for once in her life she's not thinking anything at all, just _feeling_.

After several long, _lovely_ moments, a whistle from a passing pedestrian startles them apart. It's just as well, really—she's more than just _breathless_ now, and a moment to recover can't hurt. Grant seems to feel the same; he takes a careful step back and scrubs a hand through his hair.

"So," he says, sounding a touch breathless himself. "Is that a _yes_ on going somewhere quieter?"

She beams at him, feeling reckless. "Come home with me."

"Yes," he says immediately, then pauses and shakes his head. "I mean, are you sure? You really wanna let a complete stranger know where you live?"

"I'm moving next week," she says honestly. "If you're a murderer, you'll have to move fast."

"I'm not a murderer," he promises. "But this is moving _really_ fast. Are you okay with that?"

"If I weren't," she says, and steps closer to him. "I wouldn't have asked." She rocks up on her toes to kiss him again, lightning quick. "Does that appease your sense of chivalry?"

He leans down and kisses her in return, longer and deeper, and they're both panting when he draws back.

"Screw chivalry," he says. "How far is your place?"

"Three stops on the Tube," she admits. It suddenly seems impossibly far. "Do you have a car?"

"Not with me," he says. "But my hotel's only a block away."

She's not entirely certain precisely how far a _block_ is, but she's heard the term on American television often enough to know that his hotel is much, much closer than her flat.

"Excellent," she says. "Lead the way."


	41. Are you drunk?

A/N: anonymous said: "Jemma &amp; Grant, "Are you drunk?""

* * *

"Agent Ward…are you drunk?"

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"Then exactly why are you playing with Simmons' hair?"

"She has pretty hair."

"…Agent Simmons?"

"It's true, sir. I do have pretty hair."

"And soft!"

"Yes, and soft! Thank you for noticing!"

"You're welcome."

"…Skye?"

"Don't look at me, AC; they were like this when I found them."

"Right…okay. Let's just…get them back to the Bus." Pause. "In separate vehicles."

"Aww, why?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Because it looks like you're about five minutes away from breaking the fraternization regs and I really don't need that headache tonight."

"Pfft. We are _not_."

"Forgive me if I don't take your word for it. Skye, you get Simmons. I've got Ward."

"Pretty sure Jemma's got him, actually, but okay."

"Did you just take a picture of them on your phone?"

"Duh. I am _never_ going to let them forget this. I can hold it over their heads _forever_."

"…Send me a copy."


	42. Last time I ask you for a favor

A/N: anonymous said: "Biospecialist "Last time I ask you for a favor""

* * *

"That's the last time I ask _you_ for a favor!"

"Come on, Simmons, I said I was sorry," Ward protests. His tone, however, is a long way from apologetic.

"Which I would be more inclined to believe if you looked a little less _smug_ about it!" she snaps back. She slams her handbag onto the table and starts for the door.

"Whoa, hey," he says. "Are you _leaving_?"

"Obviously," she mutters.

"Seriously?" he asks. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm _bleeding_."

She sighs and turns to face him again. "Yes, I've noticed. What's your point?"

"Really?" he asks. "You give me a full physical every time I get a _graze_ in the field, but when I'm actually injured you're not gonna do anything about it?"

"This time you deserve it," she says, crossing her arms. "It's your own fault; treat it yourself."

"That's harsh, Simmons," he says. "Especially since I was only doing what you asked."

"I _asked_ you to kindly persuade that man to leave me alone," she snaps, storming back across the room to stand in front of him. "Not start a brawl and get us kicked out!"

"I'm a specialist," Ward points out. "Exactly _how_ were you expecting me to get him to leave you alone?"

"I was _expecting_ you to simply tell him to get lost," she says, exasperated. "He was at _least_ half a foot shorter than you! All you needed to do was—was _loom_, the way you do, and I'm sure he would have—"

"You wanted me to loom?" he interrupts, finally sounding less amused. "Some guy puts his hands on you and all you want me to do is intimidate him?"

"Yes!" she says, jabbing her index finger into his chest. "That man in particular made me uncomfortable, but I _did_ want _someone's_ hands on me—which would have been completely possible had you not _started a brawl_!"

"Wait," he says, blinking. "What?"

"Do you have any idea how long it's been since my last sexual encounter?" she demands. "Do you?"

"Uh, no," he says, appearing thrown. "I…what?"

"Ward, this is not the sort of dress I wear when I want to have a friendly drink with someone," she says. "This is the sort of dress I wear when I am, to use the colloquial term, on the pull. I fully intended to go home with a stranger tonight. I had plans, Ward—_lots_ of plans. Plans which you entirely ruined by getting us thrown out!"

He stands suddenly from the stool he's been sitting on, and, caught off guard, she stumbles back a step.

"Simmons," he says evenly. "Do you mean to tell me that you went to the bar with the intention of finding a one-night stand?"

"Oh, now he understands!" she says, throwing her hands up. "Now that you've ruined my chances of—"

"Simmons," he interrupts.

"_What_?"

"You asked the wrong favor," he says.

She glares up at him. "And what _exactly_ do you mean by that?"

In answer, he wraps an arm around her waist, pulls her to his chest, and kisses her. Passionately and with _very_ clear intent.

Oh.

Perhaps, she thinks fuzzily (as he lifts her off her feet and sets her on the nearby lab table), she did ask the wrong favor, at that.


	43. Where the fuck did that clown come from?

A/N: anonymous said: ""Where the fuck did that clown come from?" Any pairing"

and

anonymous said: ""Where the fuck did that clown come from?" biospecialist continuation"

* * *

"Where the _fuck_ did that clown come from?"

"A carnival?" Jemma guesses, resting her chin on her hand. "That is traditionally where one finds clowns, is it not?"

"You know that's not what I meant," Ward grumbles.

"What _did_ you mean?" she asks, just to see him scowl. He really is terribly attractive when he's angry.

(Of course, he's also attractive when he's happy. And stoic. And sternly disapproving.)

"What I meant," he grunts as he removes the flat tire, "Is what the fuck was a clown doing in the middle of the damn street?"

(He's also attractive when he's swearing.

…He's just a very attractive man in general. It's a bit of a problem, really.)

"I couldn't possibly guess," she says, and she really couldn't.

She is, however, considering finding out so that she might track said clown down and send him a thank-you letter, because had he not been standing in the middle of the road, Ward wouldn't have swerved to avoid him, run up the curb, and popped a tire. And had he not popped the tire, she wouldn't have had the opportunity to watch him _change_ it.

She never knew that changing a tire could be an appealing act, but it truly is. She's very much enjoying watching the shift of muscles in Ward's back and arms. He's such an excellent specimen, and it's nice to get to _appreciate_ the sight for once, rather than needing to worry about stitching him up.

Yes, she decides, as he tightens the lug nuts on the spare tire, she really does need to find that clown and thank him. His—admittedly unwise—choice to stand in the middle of the road, plus Ward's sense of chivalry (which meant he refused to let her assist in changing the tire) and the heat of the July afternoon (which led to Ward removing his shirt approximately three minutes after getting out of the car) have combined to make this afternoon a truly excellent one.

x

She needs to stop staring.

Grant can feel Simmons' eyes on him, and it's proving seriously distracting. Which is a problem, since he needs to concentrate on changing the tire.

It's pathetic, really. He's disarmed nuclear warheads without breaking a sweat, and now he's fumbling with a _tire_, of all things. Still, it's not exactly his fault—not when he's so attuned to Simmons. She's sitting on the curb behind him, watching him work, and he's so aware of her presence that every time she moves—every time she shifts, even the slightest fraction of an inch—every time she _breathes_—he completely loses track of what he's doing.

Taking his shirt off seemed like a good idea at the time. Not only because it's ridiculously hot out—although it is—but because he knew this would be the result. Simmons has been watching him forweeks, her eyes trailing him everywhere he goes, and he's man enough to admit (if only to himself) how much he enjoys it.

After months in which she barely gave him a second glance—months in which she never batted an eyelash, despite how frequently he ended up shirtless in order to receive medical treatment at her hands—he couldn't resist the opportunity to see how she would react, in light of her apparently new-found attraction to him. So, once he determined that the tire needed to be changed, he made an offhand comment about the heat and stripped his shirt off.

It was a major miscalculation.

She's given him more than a second glance, this time. Even with his back to her, he can _feel_ the way her eyes trace over him. Her gaze leaves little trails of fire in its wake, and even if it _weren't_ 100 degrees out, he'd still be sweating.

He's wanted her since the first moment he laid eyes on her, and for some reason, she's recently started wanting him in return. He couldn't believe it at first—was positive that his mind was playing tricks on him, inventing signs of attraction (signs he's been trained to note and take advantage of in others) where there were none—but as the weeks passed and her attraction became more obvious, he eventually accepted it.

Jemma Simmons wants him.

It's left him in a quandary. There are plenty of reasons not to pursue anything with her—relationships, even casual ones, can screw up a team's dynamics like nothing else, to say nothing of how badly the team would fracture should things go poorly. In the event of a messy split, the close quarters they share on the Bus would force the rest of the team into choosing sides…and Grant's got no illusions about how _that_ would end.

But she's hard to resist. She's a beautiful, brilliant woman, sunshine wrapped around a core of pure steel—walking temptation, basically, especially now that, after all the months he's spent looking at her, she's started looking back.

And he's tired of denying himself what he wants.

It's not _entirely_ selfish desire, either. He thinks he could be good for her. As brave (sometimes worryingly so) and as brilliant as she is, she's still obviously struggling with her switch to field work. All those years of school and labs didn't prepare her for being shot at…or held hostage…or nearly dying of alien viruses.

He's seen the way she shakes after missions—heard her tossing and turning in the middle of the night. He could help her with that. He knows how to handle adrenaline and nightmares. He could help her and, more than that, he wants to.

Because he doesn't just want her physically, although that's definitely a major part of it. He wants her emotionally and mentally, as well. He wants her to smile at him the way she does Fitz, like just walking into a room to find him there is enough to brighten her day. He wants her to curl up next to him on the couch the way she does with Skye, like sharing physical contact is the easiest thing in the world.

He wants all of her. That's not in question.

The question is, does she want all of _him_? Or is the way she's watching him nothing but aesthetic appreciation? It's not bragging to say he's used to that. People find him attractive. That's nothing new. He's taken frequent advantage of it, over the years, both on and off mission.

But never as himself. Never as Grant Ward, agent of SHIELD. It's always been one cover or another—even when he's off-duty, even for one-night stands, he never uses his real name. He's never gotten involved, even casually, with a fellow agent. It seemed like asking for trouble.

It still is, really, and he knows it.

This time, though, he's finding it hard to care.


	44. That's a good look for you

A/N: lindewen said: ""That's a good look for you" with Ward x Simmons"

* * *

"I feel ridiculous," Grant mutters, tugging on his shirt.

"You shouldn't," Jemma says. She's lying on her stomach, chin propped in her hands, as she watches him dress. "That's a good look for you."

"Really?" he asks, giving her an annoyed look in the mirror. "I look like I'm about to rob a bank."

"You _are_ about to rob a bank," she says reasonably.

"All the more reason I shouldn't look like it," he says. He grabs his leather jacket off the doorknob and pulls it on with a little sigh. "I don't know what the hell Coulson thinks he's doing, giving us a _dress code_ for a robbery."

"I told you you shouldn't have held that heist marathon," she reminds him.

"I know."

"Don't be ridiculous, Jemma," she mocks, lowering her voice and adopting her best imitation of his accent. "They're just _movies_, Jemma. We're already bank robbers, Jemma, what harm could it—ah!"

She breaks off into giggles as Grant drops down next to her, nearly bouncing her right off the mattress, and tugs her over to lie on top of him. She's still laughing as he cups the back of her neck and pulls her down for a kiss, and it makes him smile against her lips.

"You're in a good mood today," he notes, as she shifts to straddle him properly. "What exactly do you have planned for while I'm gone?"

"Experiments," she says brightly. "May's finally found some worthwhile test subjects for the truth serum I developed." Just the thought of it makes her itch to get started. "It's going to be such fun!"

"I bet," he mutters, and runs a hand up under her shirt. He doesn't do anything particularly interesting with it—presumably in deference to the fact that he's about to leave—just rests it against her ribs, but it still sends a very pleasant warmth through her. "Does that mean I'm gonna be on my own for the adrenaline crash?"

She leans down and kisses him briefly, nipping at his bottom lip when he slides his hand a little farther up her torso. She's tempted to say yes, just so he can convince her otherwise, but as they _are_ on a time limit…

"Of course not," she murmurs, and kisses him again—a little more intently, this time. "You know how much I enjoy your adrenaline."

"I do know," he agrees.

Further conversation is prevented when his phone buzzes on the bedside table, and he sighs.

"That's my cue," he says.

"I suppose it is," she agrees sadly, and rolls off of him. "Come back safely, please."

"I'll do my best," he says.

He stands, straightens his clothes, and slides his phone into the inside pocket of his jacket. Then he grabs his gun from the desk, tucks it into his waistband, and leans down to kiss her once more. It's a very distracted sort of kiss, the kind that tells her his mind is already on the job, and she makes a mental note to have him make it up to her later.

"Don't go too mad scientist while I'm gone," he says.

"I can't promise that," she says, and lies back down. "I suppose you'll just have to hurry back."

He runs his eyes over her, stretched out on his bed wearing one of his shirts, and smiles a little. "Count on it."

And that's a promise she _knows_ he'll keep.


	45. Are you flirting with me?

A/N: thatmansplayinggalaga said: "Could you do the "Are you flirting with me?" &amp; biospecialist?"

* * *

"Are you flirting with me?"

"Yes," Simmons says plainly. "Is that all right?"

"Well, that depends on whether or not you're serious about it," he says.

"Oh?" she asks. "How so?"

"Well, if you're just messing around," he starts, and then breaks off, distracted by the need to avoid being stabbed. He disarms the man wielding the dagger, knocks him out, and then throws it at the archer across the room; it slices across the back of her hand, just as he intended, and she drops her bow with a shout. "This really isn't the time for it, and we're gonna have to talk about appropriate field conversation."

"And if I'm in earnest?" Simmons asks.

He takes advantage of the lull to risk a glance at her. She's safely sheltered behind the makeshift barricade, still working on a cure for the hallucinogenic drug their attackers have been dosed with, and the way she's frowning slightly in concentration almost distracts him from the knight attempting to sneak up on him.

"In that case," he says, returning his attention to the…he feels ridiculous thinking of it as a battle, but somehow _fight_ just doesn't fit the situation. "It's still not really the time for it, but we'll definitely be revisiting this conversation later."

"_Later_ being once these people have been cured and we're no longer in danger of death by festival goers?" she guesses.

He ducks a wild swing from the knight's sword—the only good thing about these being confused civilians instead of actual enemies is that most of them have _no idea_ what they're doing with the very real weapons they're wielding—and then knocks him out with a well-placed punch.

"Yep," he says.

"Ah."

She doesn't say anything else, and for a while, he focuses on keeping their attackers away from the barricade. It would be easier if he could just cross them off and be done with it, but unfortunately, that's not an option.

Eventually, though, he has to ask. "So?"

"So?" she echoes, sounding slightly distracted.

"So, will we be revisiting this later?" he prompts. He feels ridiculous—because seriously, _not the time_—but in his defense, she's the one who started it.

"Oh," she says, and while he's a little too busy trying not to get beheaded to look and actually see it, he can _hear_ her smile in her voice. "I should think so."

And that, he thinks, is _excellent_ motivation to wrap this up quickly.


	46. One sentence fics

sapphireglyphs said: "Ward x Simmons for all the numbers"

sapphireglyphs said: "Fluff - Ward/Simmons"

lindewen said: "Future fic - Ward x Simmons"

* * *

**1\. Angst**

He laughs when she swears she'll kill him for his betrayal; locked in a cell, under constant guard, she's not likely to kill anyone.

**2\. AU**

Having a relationship with one's bodyguard is not strictly appropriate, but she is queen and she will do what she wills—and should any speak against them, he'll be happy to correct their attitudes.

**3\. Crack**

The first time is cute and the second amusing, but by the seventh time she brings home a cadet who has "nowhere else to go" he's wondering whether opening an orphanage might have been a better choice than working at the Academy.

**4\. Future Fic**

Once HYDRA is gone, it's time to focus on rebuilding SHIELD; they each take a position teaching at the Academy (just the one; their own experiences proved that keeping the Academies separate did more harm than good), and it's more amusing than annoying that any cadet who gets in trouble with one Instructor Ward will immediately seek out the other for intercession.

**4\. Future Fic**

HYDRA is defeated, the last remnants ground into dust and scattered into the wind, and their work is done, but their life together is only beginning; the day after Strucker dies, Grant gets down on one knee, and he barely has time to ask the question before she says yes.

**5\. First Time**

She's strangely gentle, touching him softly, like he might shatter at any moment—like he's delicate—and he would be annoyed if not for the fact that he honestly thinks he might; he has no idea how this is happening, how he's managed to trick her into thinking he's worthy of this—of touching her—but he's too grateful to really question it.

**6\. Fluff**

She's curled against his side, sleep-warm and barely awake, the first time he says he loves her; he's nervous, but all she does is smile against his skin, tell him it's about time, and return the sentiment.

**6\. Fluff**

After spending an hour treading water in the Atlantic last year, open water makes her nervous, but he promises not to let go; she wraps her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist and laughs against his shoulder as the waves wash over them.

**7\. Humor**

Her impersonation of him becomes funnier with time; the third time she does it, patching him up after an op gone wrong and angrily mocking his apparent thought process ("oh look, a sword, I'd better throw myself on it now, before anyone else has the chance"), he actually laughs so hard he tears his stitches.

**8\. Hurt/Comfort**

Long after she's found, rescued, and brought back to base, she can feel the chill of the ice and snow in her bones; he holds her close, let his skin warm her, and if he realizes that she shakes from tears as well as the cold, he says nothing about it—merely tells her, again and again, that she's safe and he loves her and he will never let _anyone_ hurt her, ever again.

**9\. Smut**

She says, in a moment of anger, that she never knows what he's thinking because he never _talks_ to her; once the fight is over, as they're making up, he pins her down and tells her (in English so she can understand and Russian because he knows it turns her on) everything he wants to do to her—everything he's _going_ to do to her—until she's writhing beneath him and begging him to stop talking and _do it_, already.

**10\. UST**

She no longer scolds him as she stitches him up after missions; they're both silent the entire time, holding their breath, because they both know that one wrong word—one too-long touch—will push them over the edge and into something neither of them is ready to face.


	47. no matter where we are continuation

A/N: superspygrantward said: "no matter where we are (i will keep you in my heart) for the motivation meme"

* * *

The disagreement doesn't end when the shouting does, because Grant's worry far outlasts his anger.

"We knew it was a possibility," Jemma reminds him gently. She emphasizes with what he's feeling at the moment, of course—far better than she thinks he's considering—and now that he's not being a prat, she's more willing to be understanding about it. "Field work comes with risks like this. It's simply a part of the work."

"There's a difference between knowing you _might_ be in danger and hearing that you're two hours away from death," he says. "When Trip called me…" He breaks off and swallows, looking away. "You have no idea what that was like."

"Don't I?" she asks softly. There's a tremor in her voice, and it brings his eyes back to her. "After all of the calls I've received about _you_—in some trauma center or another, on the brink of death…" She shakes her head. "I worry for you every bit as much as you worry for me, Grant. I simply have more practice at it."

He exhales slowly. "I know. I know. I'm sorry. I just." He closes what little distance there is between them and cups her face in his hands. "I can't lose you, Jemma. If I did—I'd go out of my mind."

"You're not going to lose me, Grant," she promises, wrapping her hands around his wrists. "If today did nothing else, it proved that I have an excellent team." She squeezes his wrists slightly. "You won't lose me."

"You can't promise that," he says.

"No," she admits. "But then, neither can you."

"No," he echoes.

He lets go of her faces in order to draw her into a hug, and she closes her eyes as she slides her arms around his waist. It's been a long, horrible, _terrifying_ day, and she'd like nothing better than to curl up with him in their bed and pretend it never happened. In lieu of that, though, this does nicely—with his warm, solid arms around her and his steady heartbeat against her ear, she feels the vise around her heart loosening for the first time since she saw that wrench hit the ground.

It's much nicer than the desperate, crushing hug he gave her when she first walked off the Bus, which did more to fill her with guilt than comfort her.

"So where does that leave us?" he asks quietly.

"Right where we started, I think," she says. "In mutual fear and worry."

He laughs a little, humorlessly. "I guess so."

There are no easy answers here, she knows. The only way she could ease his worry would be to leave the team, but she can't do that. Now that she's gotten a taste of working in the field—terrifying and depressing and dangerous as it may be—she couldn't possibly go back to theoretical lab work.

And even if she did, it wouldn't end her worry for _him_. Grant has no safe options to retreat to. He's a specialist and a specialist only—there is no possible career move that doesn't leave him in danger.

All they can do is live with it.


	48. Jemma's parents are HYDRA continuation

A/N: cinnamonfa asked: "Jemma's parents are HYDRA [for the motivation meme]"

(the original drabble is chapter 34 of this collection)

* * *

In the morning, Grant wakes her with a kiss and an apology.

"I have a meeting with the base commander," he says. He's fully dressed, sitting on the edge of her bed with one hand resting on her thigh as she blinks up at him groggily.

"And this necessitates waking me because…?" she prompts, somewhat grumpily. Although she's usually a morning person, they had a _very_ late—albeit incredibly pleasant—night, and a quick glance at the clock on the bedside table proves that she's only been sleeping for two hours.

"I didn't want you to think I was running out on you," he says, sounding amused. "And…"

"And?" she asks. She presumes from his sudden, uncharacteristic hesitation that he has something important to say, so she sits up, rubbing her eyes and trying to wake up a little. "What is it?"

"I wanted to ask if I can come back tonight," he says.

"Tonight?"

"Every night," he amends. "If all you want is sex, I can live with that. But I'd like more, if you're willing to give it."

Her heart gives a little leap. "Of course I am."

"Glad to hear it," he says with a little smile. After a moment, though, it fades. "But I'm not going to be in Asmara for very long, you know. Soon as my shoulder's healed, I'm back on rotation."

"Oh," she says. She wishes he'd left this conversation for a time when she wasn't so tired; thinking right now is like trying to swim through molasses, and she's having difficulty interpreting his tone. Is he saying this because he only wants a relationship for the duration of his time here, or because he thinks she won't be willing to attempt a long-distance relationship?

_Is_ she willing to attempt a long-distance relationship? Specialists tend to be sent on long-term ops, she knows, and it's likely he'd be out of contact for most of them. Which means that, should they pursue a relationship beyond his time here, she'll be going months at a time without hearing from him. Months during which she'll have no idea where he is or what he's doing. Does she really want to put herself through that?

…Oh, who does she think she's fooling? She's been in love with him since she was sixteen, something that three years without a single word didn't put a dent in. A few months is nothing.

So the real question is, does _he_ want a long-distance relationship? There's only one way to find out.

"And when your time here is done?" she asks. "What then?"

He's silent for a moment, tracing little circles on her thigh, and even through the blanket, it's a very distracting sensation.

"Technically, I'm entitled to two weeks of leave after every op," he says eventually. "I always turn it down, but…that can change. Would that be enough for you?"

"I'd like to try, at least," she says.

(And if it's not enough…well, she can always pull some strings, can't she? She suspects some already have been pulled to get him here; even with an injury, it's not common for a specialist of his caliber to be relegated to guard duty.)

"So would I," he says. He glances at the clock and makes a face. "I have to go."

"Go," she says. "We can talk about the rest later."

"Great," he says. He cups her jaw with one hand and kisses her quickly. "Go back to sleep. I'll see you later."

"Later."

She lies down on her side, pulling the blankets up to her chin, and tries not to feel too giddy about the way he pauses to brush some of her hair from her face before he stands. Part of her still can't believe—despite the conversation they've just had and the _abundance_ of evidence he provided last night—that he actually wants her.

It feels like the best sort of dream. It feels like the beginning of something amazing.

She doesn't stay awake long enough to see him leave, and the warmth of his touch follows her into her dreams—which are very pleasant indeed.


	49. I promise I won't get mad if you tell me

lindewen said: ""I promise I won't get mad if you tell me" - Ward x Simmons"

* * *

"I promise I won't get mad if you tell me," Grant says, for—Christ—the thousandth time.

"You're _already_ mad," Jemma counters, exasperated.

"I'm mad because we've been going in circles for twenty minutes," he says, "And I promise you that whatever you have to say cannot be even _half_ as irritating as this."

"Fine," she sighs. "Fine." She takes a deep breath and takes both his hands in hers. "The truth is, I'm already familiar with American football, Grant—I did, after all, attend the Academy, which (although not technically an American school) was full to bursting with Americans—and…"

"And…?" he prompts, still not sure which part of this is supposed to make him angry. So he doesn't get the chance to introduce her to football like he hoped to. Big deal. Did she really think it was a big enough problem to spend twenty minutes arguing about whether or not he was going to get mad? "If you don't like football, Jemma, that's fine."

"No, I do like it," she says. "That's the problem."

"_Why_ is it a problem?" he demands, frustrated.

She bites her lip and looks up at him apprehensively. "Because I'm a Patriots fan."

_What_.


	50. First things firstgive me your shirt

A/N: lindewen said: "First things first...give me your shirt."

* * *

It's been a long day, full of the kind of wacky hijinks that have only ever happened to him as a member of Coulson's team. Sometimes Grant misses his days on the specialist rotation, when all he had to worry about were assassins, snipers, and ill-tempered terrorists. Things were simpler then.

When he returns to the Bus after returning their seven-year-old stow-away to her mother to find it apparently deserted, he has the sinking feeling that the day's not over yet. Lola is gone, as is the fleet SUV they borrowed from the local base this morning, and the lab is empty. He checks his phone, but he has no missed calls and no new texts—nothing to explain why the team might have left while he was gone.

He goes upstairs and checks the cabin level, then Coulson's office. There's no sign of the team anywhere. The only place left to check is the storage area, and he sets off into it with a sigh (and with his gun drawn). The last time he was back here, he was chasing a ghost, and he ended up getting knocked out by a wrench and locked in a closet with FitzSimmons. It wasn't a great time.

Speaking of closets, he's passing one of the storage pods when he hears a _thump_ and a muffled curse. He relaxes a little, recognizing the accent, and opens the door.

As soon as he gets a good look at the room (or, to be exact, the woman standing in it), his mind goes completely blank.

"Oh, you're back," Simmons says casually, apparently unconcerned by the fact that she's only wearing a bra and panties. "Did you get Myka home all right?"

"Simmons," he manages after a moment of stuttering. "What—you're—I mean…" He gestures vaguely at her, at a complete loss for words. He really can't think past the skin on display. A tiny part of him is exasperated with himself, because really? Half of his career has consisted of seducing beautiful women, and one tiny biochemist who's not even actually naked has him stammering like a kid?

(The rest of him is a little too busy drinking in the sight in front of him to care, because he's been—somewhat guiltily—dreaming of her for months, and the reality is so much better than his imagination.)

"Ah, right," she says, glancing down at herself. "First things first…give me your shirt."

For one wild moment, he actually considers refusing. Then he shakes himself, sets his gun on the table, and strips off his shirt. He hands it over when she motions for it, which might be a mistake, because she pulls it on at once, and somehow, Simmons in his shirt is even _sexier_ than Simmons in her underwear.

He's so screwed.

"So," he says, then clears his throat when his voice comes out a little rougher than usual. "What the hell is going on? Where is everyone, and why are you…?"

He trails off because Simmons doesn't appear to be listening. She plucks at the fabric of his shirt and then looks between it and him, frowning slightly. She doesn't look annoyed, though—more thoughtful.

"What?" he asks, uneasy. If working on Coulson's team has taught him anything, it's that it's never a good thing when the geniuses start thinking.

"Interesting," she says—more to herself than to him, he thinks. Then she walks around the table to stand right in front of him, tipping her head back to meet his eyes squarely. "Kiss me."

"I—what?"

She beams at him. "I thought so. You're attracted to me, aren't you?"

"I—yeah—but," he shakes his head. "Seriously, what—"

"What was it?" she interrupts. "The lingerie, or your shirt? I thought it might be a bit much, but then, you've always struck me as the possessive sort, so…"

"Simmons," he says. "What the _hell_ is going on?"

She sighs, like he's being unbearably slow, and crosses her arms.

"I'm seducing you," she says plainly.

He blinks.

"The others won't be back for hours, yet," she continues. "We have the plane to ourselves. It seemed the perfect opportunity." She frowns. "Unless you don't—"

Unless he doesn't _what_, he never finds out, because that's about the point where he shakes off his shock enough to act, and they forego further conversation in favor of much more enjoyable activities.

They kind of wreck the storage pod a bit. And his shirt.

But it's so, so worth it.


	51. I'm sorry I kissed you

A/N: anonymous said: "I'm sorry I kissed you."

* * *

"I'm sorry I kissed you."

"Really? I'm not."

"I completely—what?"

"I said, I'm not. Sorry you kissed me, that is. In fact, I've rather been hoping you would do it again."

"But I thought—you and Fitz—"

"Platonic. Completely. You and Skye?"

"No. Definitely not."

"Well, then. What _exactly_ is the problem?"

"…I guess there isn't one."

…

…

…

…

"Oh my god! My _eyes_!"

"Skye! I—where did you come from?"

"Upstairs, which is where you guys are supposed to be! Attending a briefing, not _scarring me for life_."

"Sorry, Skye." Pause. "Grant?"

"…I'm not actually sorry."

"Aww."

"No no no! Don't you _dare_ start that again! Upstairs, both of you—and hands where I can see 'em!" Shudder. "Ugh. Tell me the truth—does SHIELD have those flashy-things from _Men in Black_? Because I could really, really use one right now."


	52. Sorry Fresh out of sweet forgiveness

A/N: astonishes said: "Sorry. Fresh out of sweet forgiveness."

* * *

"Jemma—"

"Sorry," she interrupts, sounding about as far from apologetic as it's possible to get. "Fresh out of sweet forgiveness."

He pauses, briefly caught off guard by the phrasing (she has been spending _way_ too much time with Skye), but decides that saying anything about it can only make things worse.

"Look, I know you're upset," he says. "I made a mistake, and I—"

"A mistake?" she asks, tone worryingly pleasant. "Is _that_ what you call it?"

He sighs. "What would you call it?"

"A _crime_," she hisses. "A horrid, unforgiveable betrayal. A _tragedy_."

"All I did was answer your phone!" he says, exasperated. "You were in the shower, and the last time you missed a call from your parents, your dad had a _breakdown_ because he thought you were dead! You felt so guilty you cried every night for a _week_."

"Yes, well, he's better now," she says, waving off the reminder. "And, frankly, I'd rather he have another breakdown than talk to you."

"Okay," he says slowly. "I'm trying really hard not to be insulted, and it's not really working."

"Don't be ridiculous," she snaps, rolling her eyes. "It's nothing to do with _you_."

"Then what's it to do with?" he demands, completely lost. "So I answered your phone and spent thirty seconds talking to your parents! _Why_ is this a big deal?"

"The _big deal_, as you so quaintly put it, is that my parents are now aware that I'm seeing someone!"

He stares at her. "Seriously? We've been together for eight months and you _still_ hadn't told your parents?"

"What of it?" she asks, attempting nonchalance. She's…really not good at it, and she seems to realize it, since she immediately switches to the defensive. "You haven't told _your_ parents about us, either!"

"That's because I haven't spoken to my parents in fifteen years," he reminds her, rolling his eyes. "You talk to yours twice a week." He crosses his arms. "Seriously, Jemma. What's the issue, here? If you're not serious about us—"

"No, I am!" she assures him instantly. "It's just…" She sighs. "My parents are a little…_over-eager_ in this department."

"In the department of you dating?" he asks, confused.

"In the department of _grandchildren_," she corrects. "To be precise." She sighs again, heavily, and pulls her phone out of her pocket, holding it up for his inspection. "In the three hours since you spoke to them, my parents have sent me twenty-six text messages asking about you. Specifically, your feelings on marriage and fatherhood."

As he stares at the phone, speechless, it lights up and chimes a message alert.

Jemma grimaces. "Make that twenty-seven."

"Okay," he says eventually. "Maybe it was more than just a mistake. I am very, very sorry. Really."

He thinks about making a joke—about how cutting off contact entirely has done wonders for him, and maybe she should give it a try—but decides, after a quick look at her expression, that it wouldn't go over well.

"Let me make it up to you," he requests instead.

She gives him a flat stare. "And how could you _possibly_ make up for giving my parents reason to text me every four hundred seconds?"

"I could tell you," he says, holding back a smile at the fact that she actually did the _math_ on how frequently her parents are texting her. She's just…amazing. "But I'd rather show you."

"Oh?" she asks, trying (and pretty much failing) to hide a smile of her own. "Go on, then."

"With pleasure."

He plucks the phone from her hand, puts it on silent, and drops it onto the table. Then he proceeds to make things up to her. Thoroughly.


	53. You have three choices

A/N: anonymous said: "You have three choices...Run, hide, or die."

* * *

"I'm sorry, sir," Jemma says, blinking. "Could you repeat that? You want us to go undercover as a couple?"

"I know it's a lot to ask, Simmons, but it's our only option," Coulson says. "We need a sample of that drug before it hits the market, and you're the only one who can get it for us."

"Yes, but I—"

"You can't go alone," he continues over her. "But the cover doesn't allow for a bodyguard or a platonic companion. It's lover or nothing, and nothing's not an option."

"I understand that, sir, but—"

"And it has to be Ward," he adds. "Frankly, he's the only one I trust to be able to get you out of there if things go sour. You trust Ward, don't you?"

"Of course, but—"

"Ward?" Coulson asks. "Any problems with the assignment?"

"No, sir," he says, not bothering to hide his amusement.

"So everyone's happy and everyone understands their roles," Coulson says, clapping his hands together briskly. "Glad to hear it."

He gives them both a nod and departs swiftly. Jemma, meanwhile, is still standing there stammering. Hearing a low chuckle from the man standing next to her, she pulls herself out of her shock and whirls to face him, thumping him on the arm.

"Grant!" she hisses. "You said you'd talk to him about our relationship!"

"I did," he defends, still chuckling.

"Really?" she asks, disbelieving. "Because _that_ did not sound like a man who's aware that we've been dating for six months!"

He catches her hand before she can hit him again, swallowing back the rest of his laughter. "Okay, I didn't tell him. I went to his office to talk to him and he started with all of that—needing us to go undercover together—and…" He shrugs. "It was funny."

"Funny?" she echoes.

"Yeah," he says, and laughs again. "The look on your face alone…"

She pulls her hand out of his and crosses her arms, narrowing her eyes at him. "Grant."

"Jemma."

"You have three choices," she says evenly. "Run, hide, or die."

"Oh, really?" he asks, the amusement in his eyes sharpening into something a little more…thrilling. "Those are my only options?"

"Yes," she says, even as he steps closer and her mouth goes dry. "Really."

"Really," he repeats thoughtfully. "Because I think I should get the chance to plead my case."

"Should you?" she asks, and takes a step of her own. "I don't know. You'll have to be convincing."

He smiles a bit, wickedly. "How convincing?"

"You just made a fool of me in front of our commanding officer," she reminds him, a touch sharply.

"So I'll have to be _very_ convincing," he muses, and closes the last of the distance between them. "I think I can manage that."

And he does.


	54. stretching out on the couch

A/N: anonymous said: "one getting home from work later than the other and stretching out on top of them like a big lazy cat while they sit on the couch in front of the tv" biospecialist please

* * *

It's been a long day.

Grant doesn't feel the least bit guilty about stretching out on the couch in the lounge, even though Skye—who's sitting in the recliner next to him—keeps giving him pathetic looks. As the only person on the Bus who was thrown out of a third story window today, he thinks he's earned the right to have the couch to himself.

Skye must agree, because aside from the pathetic looks, she doesn't protest at all. She also lets him pick what to watch, which has literally _never_ happened before. He chooses one of the old Captain America movies, mostly because it's fun and engaging without actually requiring much thought. The only thing he's really capable of thinking at the moment is how much he hurts. Earlier, he tried to distract himself by thinking of all the times he's been hurt worse, but that got depressing pretty quick. Watching the Howling Commandos take down a ring of child-killing communists (60s propaganda at its finest) is a much better way to keep his mind occupied.

Cap is just using his shield to knock out the ringleader when Simmons walks into the lounge. That's not unusual; she spends just as much time up here as the rest of them. What _is_ unusual is what she does next. Namely, plopping down right on top of him and stretching out like a contented cat. That's pretty far out of the ordinary.

For a minute he just lies there, frozen by his shock.

He and Simmons get along pretty well. In fact, she's probably the person on the team he's closest to. However, there's a really big difference between being _friendly_ and having the kind of relationship where it's acceptable for one of them to treat the other like a teddy bear.

He's surprised (and confused) enough that it takes him a moment to find his voice.

"Uh, Simmons? What are you doing?"

"Snuggling," she says easily. "You know, for a man of such solid, muscular physique, you're surprisingly comfortable." She snuggles a little closer, one hand clenching in his shirt. "And so warm, too."

At a complete loss, he looks to Skye, who's staring with an expression somewhere between amused and freaked.

"Simmons," she says. "_Why_ are you…" She makes a face. "_Snuggling_ Ward?"

"Skye!" Simmons exclaims. "I didn't see you there!"

That's…weird, since she walked right past Skye to reach him, but he doesn't have time to dwell on it. Simmons shifts and stretches to reach Skye, shimmying—for lack of a better word—on top of him in order to grab Skye's knee.

"I love you, Skye," she says solemnly. "You're an excellent friend."

"Thanks, Simmons," Skye says slowly, and pats her hand. "Love you, too."

Grant's a lot of things—killer, spy, master tactician—but he also happens to be a red-blooded male, and the wiggling is starting to get to him. In other circumstances, he might enjoy it—oh, who's he kidding, he _definitely_ would—but Simmons is clearly impaired in some way. Something's happened, and he needs to figure out what.

"Okay," he says, and sits up. He carefully shifts her off of his lap as he swings his legs off the couch, then deposits her next to him. "Simmons, how are you feeling right now?"

She makes a dissatisfied sound. "Not as nice as I was feeling when I was on top of you."

He closes his eyes and counts slowly to ten, trying not thinking of any other ways in which Simmons could feel nice on top of him. He completely fails.

Shit.

He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes, then winces. Simmons is pouting at him, and it's kind of pathetic just how much of an effect it has. No one would ever guess that he's one of SHIELD's best specialists.

"Skye," he says, tearing his eyes away from Simmons to look at her. "Go get Coulson."

"Yeah," she agrees, and scrambles to her feet. She's looking more freaked than amused, at this point, and he's weirdly grateful for it. If she weren't so disturbed by Simmons' behavior, she'd definitely be mocking him for his reaction to it. "I'll find May, too."

"Good idea," he acknowledges. As she leaves, he looks back at Simmons, who freezes in the act of scooting closer to him. "Let's try this again. Where were you before you came to the lounge?"

"In the lab," she says promptly.

Yeah, he was afraid of that. If this is the result of some experiment she and Fitz have going—shit. Fitz.

"Was Fitz there?" he asks.

She nods happily.

"And where is Fitz now?" he asks. He's having visions of Fitz climbing on top of May the way Simmons just climbed on top of him, and he's not sure whether to laugh or prepare a body bag.

"Still in the lab," Simmons answers, so at least there's that. She inches closer to him, and he pretends not to notice. (Not an easy task when they're pressed thigh to thigh.) "He didn't want to come."

"Oh, yeah?" he asks, as Skye returns with Coulson and May. "Why not?"

"Why are you asking so many questions?" she counters. "You never talk this much. And there are so many more _interesting_ things we could be doing."

And then, either not noticing or not caring about the presence of their commanding officer, she slides into his lap. He fists his hands at his sides in order to avoid grabbing her—as far as he's concerned, _don't touch the impaired scientist_ has just become his new mantra—and tries to ignore the play of her fingers along the back of his neck.

"I see what you mean," Coulson mutters to Skye. Then, louder, "Simmons? You feeling okay?"

"Yes, sir," she says cheerfully, and presses a kiss to Grant's jaw. With great effort, he manages not to react. "I'm feeling simply splendid, thank you."

"Right," Coulson says. He looks at Grant. "Ward? Doing okay?"

Grant gives him a flat stare. Coulson grins.

"We'll take that as a yes," he says. Then he sobers. "All right. Let's figure this out."

Whatever this is, Grant hopes they can get it solved quickly. Even _his_ self-control has limits, and Simmons sitting in his lap and trying to kiss him is testing them like very few things ever have.

But he makes himself a definite promise to investigate the possibility of revisiting this position when she's back in her right mind.


	55. Ward struggling to separate himself

A/N: anonymous said: "Can I request a biospecialist where he comes home from a mission and is having difficulty separating himself from his cover? Just something weird and disconnected please, with a side of hurt/comfort if it's possible."

* * *

Sometimes it's hard to untangle.

Untangle what? He doesn't know. Real from not-real, cover from person, agent from man, maybe. He gets back to base and goes through Medical and gets debriefed, and he can reel off facts and figures, report the exact angle of the shot he took or the precise words of the information he forced from the target, but the whole time he's wavering between what he is and what he isn't.

He knows his name because they use it: Agent Ward this, Agent Ward that, good work, Agent Ward. But there's nothing beyond that, no substance under the skin, and Agent Ward is just another mask until he can straighten things out.

He goes home when the debrief is over, because he knows he's supposed to. Because there's comfort and warmth, there, a woman whose name occasionally slips away but whose smile never does. He doesn't think of her when he's not him—because it's painful and _wrong_, to attach her to the things he does—but he misses her anyway, even when he doesn't think of her. Even when he's too tangled to remember who she is, her absence is a gaping hole in his chest, a distinct not-right sensation.

He goes home.

She's in the kitchen, and she's holding a knife but it doesn't spark any of his instincts. He puzzles over it, turns it over in his head—the surety that there's no danger here, not from her—but all she's doing is chopping vegetables, so maybe it's that.

She smiles when she sees him, puts her knife and her cutting board and the little pieces of carrot aside, brushes her hands off and calls him _love_. She welcomes him home and wraps her arms around him, seems not to notice the blood staining his right sleeve, and he buries his face in her hair and inhales.

This is real.

He's still tangled. He's not sure who _he_ is, really—lost in a muddle of languages and names and histories, six or seven months wearing someone else's skin—but he _knows_ her. He doesn't remember—her name slips away again, which is annoying—but he knows her. As surely as he knows the gun holstered under his jacket or the switchblade in his boot or the wire in his pocket—he _knows_ her.

She draws away from him too soon, starts to say something about dinner, and he cups her face in his hands and kisses her. She makes a little noise, and there's something sad about it, but she wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him back with equal fervor, so it must not be important.

She's much shorter than him, and the angle is inconvenient. He lifts her off her feet, sets her on the counter, and she presses her knees against his sides as he runs his hands up under her shirt. The skin under his hands is soft and warm, but there's not nearly enough of it—so he runs his hands back down her sides, out from under her shirt, to undo the buttons instead.

Her nails dig into his shoulders while he fumbles with the buttons, and she makes that noise—that sad little hum—again, but her knees are still squeezing his sides, keeping him in place, and he doesn't know what it means.

He gets the last button undone but hesitates to shove the shirt off her shoulders, because—because…

There's something not-real about this, something automatic, and he doesn't like it at all. She's real and here and he needs to be _him_, not whoever else he's been. This shouldn't be distant and hazy, not now. But he doesn't know how to be him when he doesn't know who he is, and he still can't remember her name.

(Mashunya Ingrid Rosa Yvette—there are a hundred names on the tip of his tongue, but none of them are right. None of them are _her_.)

She leans away from the kiss, flushed and breathless, and she's beautiful and he doesn't like to lose the contact, so he presses his lips to her jaw, then kisses his way down her neck. There are facts in the back of his mind, things he knows about her even though he doesn't—even though he can't—

There are things he knows about her, and he knows that if he bites down on her skin just _here_, she'll make the most amazing noise

And she does—

So he does it again—

And—

"Grant," she gasps, and it slams him into place.

He's Grant and she's Jemma and her nails are digging into his shoulders because she's trying not to touch him anywhere else—because she doesn't _like_ to touch him when he's not in his right mind, because she doesn't want to _take advantage of him_, which is ridiculous but he weirdly appreciates it—and…

He presses his face to her shoulder, struggling to breathe.

"I'm here," he says. "Sorry, I—sorry."

"It's all right, love," she says, and her touch changes, hands smoothing over his shoulders gently. "I know. It's all right."

It's not all right. He was so lost in his own head—in his own confusion—that he didn't even remember her name. That's not all right.

"I could have hurt you," he says, and she shushes him.

"You didn't," she says, fingers toying with the hair at the back of his neck. He suppresses a shudder. "I'm fine. Everything's fine."

It's not fine. They have this argument every time this happens (not every time he comes home, thank Christ, but still way more often than he'd like), and he knows he'll lose it, but he can't just let it go.

"It's not fine," he says. "I wasn't—"

"Grant," she interrupts, and he doesn't even know where that sentence was going, so he falls silent. "You can either finish what you started or let me down so I can finish making dinner."

"I don't—"

"Those are your only options," she continues like he hasn't spoken. "Either way, I'm not going to let you stand here and berate yourself for something you can't control."

He smiles against her shoulder, helpless in the face of her no-nonsense tone to do anything else. It doesn't make what just happened okay—she was holding a _knife_ when he walked in, for fuck's sake, what if he'd taken it as a threat, what if he'd—but her easy acceptance loosens something in his chest. It always does.

This is what he was chasing, when he came home without knowing who or what he was—or even who or what _she_ was. This unthinking welcome, how she can recognize a stranger wearing her husband's face and not push him away—not hate him for it—he craved it, even when he didn't know which way was up.

"Thank you," he says finally, straightening.

He can read the strain in her face, and he knows that it hurts her when he comes home like this—when the cost of the work he does is shoved in her face so blatantly. But she doesn't want to talk about it right now, and honestly, neither does he.

They need to talk about it. Experience has taught them that, surprisingly enough, talking about it does help. But that can wait until later—until the whole thing isn't so raw.

"I love you," she says, because she's _ridiculous_ and doesn't like to be thanked for the amazing things she does for him. He rolls his eyes and kisses her forehead, then steps back to help her off the counter.

"I love you, too," he says, once she's got both feet on the ground again, and tugs her into a hug.

She gives a relieved little sigh as she hugs him back, and he empathizes completely.


	56. I guess we can't even pretend

A/N: lindewen said: ""I guess we can't even pretend to be normal, huh?" - Ward x Simmons, please!"

* * *

"I guess we can't even pretend to be normal, huh?"

Jemma sighs despairingly without lifting her head from the table. Fitz pats her back sympathetically.

"I mean there's coincidence and then there's _coincidence_," Skye continues. "And I feel like running into a group of the bad guys we've spent the last six months chasing on our first ever night off pretty much crosses that line."

Jemma sighs again, louder.

"By which I mean to say this is not even a little bit your fault, Simmons," Skye says. "And you definitely should _not_ take it as any kind of sign that you were right about the universe conspiring against your efforts to hook up with Ward—although, seriously, _why_—because it's really not. Your plan totally would have worked if we hadn't gotten kidnapped."

Fitz stares at her with disbelief. "Are you—just to clarify—are you attempting to help?"

"Yes," she says. She looks at Jemma's slumped shoulders, winces a little, and clears her throat. "But seriously. You look hot."

"I know," Jemma says glumly. Her voice is somewhat muffled, since her head is still buried in her arms, but still audible. "That's what got us into this mess, if you'll recall."

"Not really," Fitz disagrees. "We'd have been fine if Skye hadn't threatened to shoot the one bloke."

"He was making Simmons uncomfortable!" Skye defends. "And hey, I'm not the one who ID'd us as SHIELD agents. That was _you_."

"You were about to get arrested!"

"And all three of us getting taken prisoner by Centipede is so much better?"

"I didn't _know_ he was one of—"

"Enough," Jemma interrupts, and finally sits up. "The only ones at fault are the Centipede soldiers who took us hostage, and bickering isn't going to accomplish anything."

"Well, it's better than sitting here waiting," Skye says. "You heard what the creepy tall guy said. As soon as they get their lab set up, the two of you are getting put to work. And if you refuse…"

Jemma and Fitz kindly pretend not to notice when Skye trails off. The threats Centipede made against her (considered the _expendable_ member of their trio, and Skye's lack of complaint over that particular label is very telling as to just how seriously they're all taking this) were both graphic and terrifying.

"About that," Jemma says, deciding that the best way to handle the situation is to move past it. "I've been thinking."

Skye pauses. "I never know how to react when you say that. It's always either really good or really bad, and there's no way of knowing which one it is until after."

"There is," Fitz asserts. "It just takes practice." He narrows his eyes at Jemma, who blinks innocently in return. He grins. "This time it's good."

Skye leans in, and the other two follow suit, mindful of the possibility that their makeshift prison is under surveillance.

"Good as in _escape_ good?" she asks quietly.

"Oh, yes," Jemma says, and leans in even closer. "Here's what we'll do…"

Ninety-eight minutes, three explosions, and a very convincing robotic rat later, the three of them scramble through a hole in one of the base's exterior walls to find the Bus' SUV parked outside. Ward is leaning against the hood, and he doesn't look happy. In fact, most people would find the glare he's wearing downright terrifying.

Of course, most people don't have six months of exposure and first-hand knowledge of what Ward looks like when he's sulking over losing a board game on their side.

"What took you so long?" Skye asks, marching right up to him. "We almost had to go with Plan C."

"I hate Plan C," Fitz mutters. He's nursing a bloody nose, and it has not improved his mood.

"We know you do," Jemma says, exasperated. "It was only a last resort, and we didn't need it anyway, so—"

"As if that—"

"Guys," Ward interrupts sharply. "What the _hell_ is going on?"

Jemma frowns at him. "Didn't you get our message?"

"Yeah, I did," he says, and pulls his phone out of his pocket. He taps at the screen for a moment, then holds it up and recites, "Been kidnapped. Please make wall go boom at following coordinates." He gives them all a flat stare. "So again I ask, what the hell is going on?"

Jemma and Fitz turn to look at Skye, slightly incredulous.

"Look," she says defensively. "I was under a lot of pressure, okay? And I only had a minute and Fitz's distraction was…" She trails off under their unimpressed stares, looks around helplessly, and then brightens. "But enough about me! Ward, have you seen Jemma's dress? Look how hot she is in a mini-skirt."

"Get in the car," he orders expressionlessly. "Now."

Desensitized Jemma, Fitz, and Skye may be, but considering the circumstances, not even they are willing to disobey Ward's tone. Fitz and Skye hurry past him to climb into the SUV's back seat at once, holding a hushed debate about Skye's choice of message as they go.

Jemma, somewhat disheartened by Ward's complete lack of reaction to Skye's efforts to draw attention to her current attire, is a bit slower to obey. As she draws even with the SUV, Ward pushes off the hood and catches her gently by the elbow, stopping her in her tracks.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"I'm fine," she says. She follows his gaze to the blood smeared over her (very low) neckline and blinks. "Oh! That isn't mine. Actually, it's not even real blood. I managed to synthesize—"

Ward squeezes her arm gently, interrupting her before she can really get started. "You're not hurt?"

"Not a scratch," she promises.

"Good," he says, and tugs her a little closer. "Because I don't say this often, but Skye's right. You do look hot."

Then he's kissing her, and they're outside an enemy base which Jemma and her best friends just escaped from, she's got fake blood drying on her skin (and ruining her dress), and she can hear Fitz complaining from here, but…it's perfect.

Normal is overrated, anyway.


	57. It sounds bad when you say it like that

A/N: safelycapricious asked: ""Oh sure, it sounds bad when you say it like that." Biospecialist, efack!"

* * *

"Oh, sure, it sounds bad when you say it like that."

"Jemma," Grant says, reaching for patience. "We're snowed into a cabin in the middle of nowhere with no way to contact our team. Come on. Not even _you_ can find a bright side to this."

In the months since they've started dating, Jemma has all but stopped giving him the disappointed _what did we do to deserve getting saddled with a specialist who has no imagination_ look that so characterized their interactions during their first few weeks of acquaintance. Which is why getting it now kind of stings.

"Grant," she mocks. "We've successfully evaded our pursuers without injury. We've found a safe space in which to lay low. Said safe space is well-stocked, both with provisions and with firewood. And, perhaps most importantly…" She drops into his lap, and he automatically lifts his hands to bracket her waist as she wraps her arms around his neck. "The team has no idea where we are."

It takes him a minute (being, as he is, slightly distracted by his lapful of very warm, very gorgeous scientist), but Grant eventually catches on.

"Which means no interruptions," he concludes.

"Exactly," she beams. She leans in and kisses him—just a quick peck—and then sits back, still grinning. "Quite the silver lining, wouldn't you say?"

Considering the fact that he's recently been giving serious thought to locking the rest of the team in the Cage just to get more than five minutes of uninterrupted alone time with Jemma…

"Well, when you put it that way…" He wraps a hand around the back of her neck and tugs her forward for a much longer kiss. When they break apart, she's flushing prettily, and it takes him a minute to regain his train of thought. "Who am I to argue with a genius?"

She bites her lip and gives him a flirty look. "And if this genius suggests we investigate the comfort of the appealingly soft rug in front of the fire?"

"Your wish," he says, and carefully shifts his grip so he can stand without dropping her, "Is my command."


	58. I never wanted you to get hurt

A/N: safelycapricious said: "Biospecialist, "I never wanted you to get hurt.""

* * *

Jemma is having a horrible week. On Monday she was captured after watching three of her fellow agents die horribly, and that was just the start. Since then, she has been beaten, threatened with terrible things, starved, and forced into making a ransom video.

And even that wasn't the worst of it. No. The _worst_ part was being handed into the custody of her bizarrely contrite ex-husband.

"You can't ignore me forever."

One wouldn't expect the twelve hours she's spent with Grant to be the worst part of her captivity so far. After all, she's been given food and water, allowed to shower, provided with clean clothes, and had her wounds treated. And the well-appointed hotel room she's in is much nicer than the basement cell which has been her home for the past six days.

So, in fact, one would _expect_ Jemma to be relieved to have been handed over to Grant. One would expect Jemma to be grateful—perhaps even glad.

One perhaps would not know that Jemma has spent the past two years having nightmares about Grant, or that the last time she saw him he held her hostage and tried to kill her best friend.

"Jemma…would you please just talk to me?"

After all of the beatings and the deprivation and the terror of the last week, this moment—Grant kneeling in front of her, holding her hands and actually attempting to _apologize_ for what he's done—is unquestionably the worst.

Of course, "apologize" is a relative term.

"If you had just joined us when I asked—"

"Enough," she interrupts, and Grant sits back on his heels, looking pleased. She's been giving him the silent treatment since she was handed over to him (like an _object_ or a _pet_ instead of a person, and it's the least of the insults she's been paid in the last week but it still grates), and as annoyed as she is to break her streak, she's more annoyed by his words. "Don't try to pin this on me, Grant. You made your own choices."

"I did," he agrees. "And some of them were the wrong ones, I admit, but—"

"Some of them?" she demands. "Grant, _look_ at me."

He winces a little, eyes flickering over the bruising on her face and then away. "I never wanted you to get hurt, Jemma."

"Then you shouldn't have joined HYDRA," she snaps.

He smiles, just a little. "I joined HYDRA before I met you."

"Then you should have left me alone," she says, and tears her hands away from his.

"Jemma," he sighs, like she's being unreasonable. "You don't mean that."

"Yes," she says. "I really do."

He reaches for her hands again and she crosses her arms before he can grab them. He has the nerve to look _injured_ by the motion, and she barely resists the urge to slap him.

"What can I do?" he asks plaintively, and two years ago the look on his face would have _killed_ her, but now it mostly just makes her tired. "How can I fix this?"

She looks into his eyes—eyes that used to mean love and safety but have meant only terror since the moment SHIELD fell—and then turns away.

"You can't."


	59. I'm the monster? What about you?

A/N: lindewen said: ""I'm the monster? What about you?" - with Ward x Simmons, please! And I'm totally okay if you can make this fluffy!"

* * *

"You are a _monster_," Jemma accuses. The words are meant for Grant but directed at the ceiling, because—"I can't even _move_."

"_I'm_ the monster?" he demands. "What about _you_? My back is literally bleeding, Jemma. The sheets are being ruined as we speak."

"Yes, fine, but I wouldn't have scratched your back if you hadn't done that thing with your tongue—"

"You love it when I do that thing with my tongue."

"And you love it when I make you bleed."

"I really do," he admits.


	60. Please don't do this Please

A/N: anonymous said: ""Please don't do this. Please.""

* * *

The cell door slams closed behind the last of the guards as they leave, and Jemma keeps her eyes on her hands. Despite how shaky she feels—from terror and blood loss both—they're completely steady. It's deliberate, of course; steady hands are important for a scientist, and she's long since learned to maintain at least a _little_ of her calm in stressful situations.

She closes her eyes when she hears the scrape of shoe against stone as the other occupant of the cell approaches her. That, too, is deliberate; if he didn't want her to hear him coming, she wouldn't. It's a taunt, she thinks—a reminder that she's stuck here with him.

The last time they were in this position, _he_ was the one in the cell, and _she_ the member of the organization holding him prisoner. Of course, she never ventured down to the basement where he was held—and she certainly never actually entered his cell—but she supposes it was too much to hope that he would pay her the same courtesy.

"So," he says lightly. "Rough day?"

God, does she hate him.

He nudges her leg with his foot, and she jolts, eyes flying open. "Yes."

She's learned the price of silence already. She'll continue to hold her tongue during interrogations, but a simple question—no matter how mocking—is not the hill to die on.

"Yeah," he sighs. "Me, too." He crouches down in front of her, and she presses herself closer to the wall, wishing she could sink through it. "See, I had a plan. A really good one. A plan that was going to solve _all_ of my problems." He shakes his head. "And then along came SHIELD and ruined everything _again_."

"Yes," she agrees, woodenly, at his expectant look. "We do that."

"I gotta say," he tsks. "It's not an attractive quality."

She flinches as he raises a hand, but all he does is tuck a loose lock of her hair behind her ear. (She would have preferred being struck.)

"But don't worry," he continues. "We're already back on course." He cups her face and brushes his thumb along one of the bruises on her cheek. "Just a few more days, and this'll all be over."

"Please don't do this," she says, and she's been through far too much to be embarrassed at the way her voice breaks. "Please."

"Sorry, Simmons," he says, not sounding it at all. He lets go of her face and stands. "But I made a promise. I intend to keep it."

She doesn't watch him leave, but she certainly hears him. He whistles as he goes.


	61. They want to hurt me!

A/N: weasleyspotter and sapphireglyphs said: ""They want to hurt me!""

* * *

"No," Jemma snaps, and yanks her hands away from Grant's. "Don't touch me!"

He sighs, spreading his hands as if to punctuate his good intentions. "No one wants to hurt you, Jemma."

She scoffs, because that is both ridiculous and blatantly untrue, and he sighs again.

"Just because I don't _want_ to hurt you doesn't mean I _won't_," he warns. "Now give me your hands."

She rolls her eyes and holds them out. He takes them in his, lacing their fingers and turning their hands this way and that to examine the damage the handcuffs have done to her wrists. Despite everything, his touch is gentle, and it makes her want to scream.

How _dare_ he treat her kindly, after everything.

"No one wants to hurt you," he repeats, frowning down at the blood on her wrists. "You shouldn't have struggled so much."

"_They_ want to hurt me!" she corrects, annoyed. "It's only you who doesn't."

"No, they don't," he says quietly.

"They do," she asserts. "You should have heard what they were threatening before you got here."

"They're confused," he says. "And hurt. They want answers."

"_They_ want answers?" she echoes. She looks down at their clasped hands, at the wedding ring he's still wearing, even now. "You don't?"

He laughs humorlessly. "Not really."

"Why not?" she asks, honestly curious.

He squeezes her hands once, gently, and then lets go of her and stands. He looks down at her for a long moment, and she's almost given up on getting an answer when he finally speaks.

"Because I know better," he says. "It doesn't matter what the answers are. It won't change what you did."

He turns and walks away. As soon as he crosses the painted yellow line, the barrier springs into place—invisible to the naked eye, but there's an audible _hum_ to it. She stays there, seated on the edge of the bed, and watches him go up the stairs, followed by Fitz (who hasn't made eye contact once) and a still-glaring Skye.

"No," she says to herself, quietly, long after the door has closed behind them and the Vault has descended into darkness. "I don't suppose it will."


	62. You're a monster

A/N: anonymous said: ""You're a monster." or "I'm the monster? What about you?""

* * *

"You're a monster."

"I'm the monster?" he mocks. The infuriating smirk has returned to his face, and she wants desperately to slap it off. "What about you?"

"What _about_ me?" she asks, surprised. "I haven't done anything."

"No?" he asks. "You're down here, aren't you? Every day, sitting in that chair, waiting for answers you _know_ aren't coming—you aren't here because Coulson actually expects you to get anything out of me." He approaches the barrier, leans in close enough to make it flare, and pins her with a knowing look. "You're avoiding something."

"And what if I am?" she says, defensively. "That doesn't make me a monster."

"It does if the _something_ you're avoiding is Fitz," he says, and she flinches before she can stop herself. "Yeah. That's what I thought." He grins. "Poor, devoted Fitz. Thought he finally had a chance with you, didn't he? With me out of the picture—murderer, traitor, whatever—he thought it was finally his turn." He shakes his head, feigning sorrow. "He should've known better."

"And what _exactly_ do you mean by that?" she demands. _She_ knows better than to engage him—really, she does—but she's been, admittedly, overly sensitive about criticism directed towards Fitz lately. Just because she doesn't look at him the way he does her doesn't mean she doesn't _love_ him, and she's beyond tired of the way everyone's treating him like it does.

"I mean that it doesn't matter what happens," he says, shrugging. "No matter what he does, what you do—no matter what _I_ do, even…" He smirks. "No matter what happens, you're always gonna be mine."

And that's about as much as she's willing to take from him today. She reaches for the tablet that controls his cell, willing her hands to remain steady. He undoubtedly knows how hard that hit her, but there's no reason to make it obvious.

"You say I'm a monster," he continues, as she picks up the tablet. "But you're the one who's always gonna choose me over everyone—even sweet, innocent Fitz. So what does that make you?"

She hits the button to turn the barrier to its highest setting, blocking out both light and sound.

Then she just sits there, cradling the tablet in her lap and trying not to think.


	63. I trusted you

A/N: anonymous said: ""I never wanted you to get hurt" or "I trusted you.""

* * *

Jemma cries when Grant is revealed as a traitor.

The others take it as grief, and it is. Grief that the man she loves is a complete _moron_, that is. Three days! His cover only lasted _three days_ after the fall of SHIELD. Honestly. She always told him his attachment to John Garrett would get him in trouble, and—surprise, surprise—she was absolutely right.

Best espionage scores since Romanoff her _foot_.

Jemma's cover, in contrast, lasts for nearly a year. She considers breaking it a time or two—she does feel guilty about poor Grant being locked away in a cell with nothing to do but play mind games with Coulson and Skye—but in the end, the work she's doing is too important to risk over sentiment.

Grant tells her he understands (through code, of course; his cell is under constant surveillance and no one ever lets Jemma go down to the Vault alone, anyway), but his eyes promise retribution. She can't wait.

Anyway, the point is, her cover lasts for nearly a year. SHIELD is stretched so thin that she's often sent on solo missions, despite what the rest of the team believes is a complete lack of field training, and it gives her the space she needs to live her double (or triple, depending on how one approaches it) life.

In the end, it's actually Grant's fault that _her_ cover gets blown, too. His mind games with Skye go a little too far, leading Coulson to decide that it's high time they spare themselves the trouble of keeping a full-time, highly-trained specialist locked in their basement.

Which would be fine—she has full confidence in Grant's ability to escape—if not for the fact that Coulson's idea of _sparing themselves the trouble_ turns out to be _execution_, not transfer. She finds out at the very last minute, leaving her the choice to either blow her cover or let Grant die.

And of course she can't do _that_, so away her cover goes.

That's how she finds herself in the Vault with nothing but Coulson between her and the tablet that will free Grant from his prison. Were the situation not so urgent, she thinks she would be amused by the betrayal on Coulson's face; as it is, she's mostly just impatient.

"I trusted you," Coulson says. "And all this time—"

"Yes, yes," she interrupts, annoyed. "HYDRA, traitor, all of that. It's true. I'm a double agent, just like my husband."

"Better, really," Grant contributes. (He, in contrast, is _definitely_ amused.) "Your cover lasted a hell of a lot longer than mine did, and they had every reason to suspect you after they learned the truth about me. I'm impressed, really."

"Thank you, darling," she says, beaming at him. "I appreciate the acknowledgement. And I _am_ sorry I had to leave you down here."

He grins. "You'll make it up to me."

"Indeed I shall," she agrees. Coulson is looking between the two of them, still with that tiresome look of betrayal on his face, and she sighs. "Really, Director. You should have seen this coming."

"Maybe I should have," Coulson says. "But _you_ should have planned this out better. You'll never make it out of here alive."

"No?" she asks.

"Even if you take me out," he says. "You'll never make…it…past…"

"Past all of the unconscious agents upstairs, who have already been affected by the fast-acting sedative I pumped through the ventilation system?" she offers.

Coulson, of course, can't hear her. He's already unconscious.

"Sedative?" Grant asks, as she steps over the Director to let the barrier down. "Really?"

"It was very short notice," she says. "I didn't have time to dig out a poison we're both immune to." She gives him a glare. "And it wouldn't be necessary if you hadn't wound Skye up so badly, so that's all the criticism I'll be taking from _you_."

"Fair enough," he says, and grins as the barrier falls. "How long will the sedative last?"

She pauses for a brief mental calculation. Taking into account the size of the base, the concentration of the sedative, the amount she had on hand, and the average body mass of the agents currently on base—

"Ten hours," she says. "Give or take. Why?"

"All those times you came down here to play betrayed wife," he says, approaching her. He stops just short of her, leaving a few inches between them, and she sways towards him before she can stop herself. It's been nearly a year since last she touched him. "Just out of reach…running circles around Coulson and the others…"

"Did you like that?" she teases.

"You know I did," he says, and closes the last bit of distance between them to take her in his arms. She closes her eyes as she slides her arms around his waist, letting out a happy sigh. "I spent almost a year imagining reaching through that barrier and dragging you into my cell."

She laughs. "Grant Ward, are you suggesting we make use of your cell before we depart?"

"It's been a year, Jem," he points out. "And, I mean…" He shrugs. "It's got a bed. And walls."

"It does indeed," she agrees. She pauses, considering. Their nearest safehouse is a good four hours away, and—for the sake of caution—it would probably be best not to use that one anyway. Meaning it could be anywhere from ten to twenty-eight hours before they reach a safe place to rest, once they leave the Playground.

It's been a year. A year where the closest she could get to him was assisting in Coulson's interrogations and watching the security feed while he worked out every morning.

"Very well," she says. "Let's test out this bed of yours, then."

So they do.


	64. I don't feel anything

A/N: anonymous said: "I don't feel anything."

* * *

One could say it starts like this: Jemma is in the middle of attempting to save her (ex) husband's life. He's bleeding out beneath her fingers, and there's no time for second-guessing or hesitation, no time for the little voice in the back of her mind that whispers _if he wants to die, let him_ and _he deserves it_. She ignores her doubts and keeps her breathing steady and works to stop the bleeding.

He's not restrained because there was no time for it and not sedated because she needs a way to gauge his condition, but he's pale and slightly delirious from blood loss, so she's not concerned for her safety.

At least, she isn't until his other hand—the one attached to an uninjured arm—comes up and closes weakly around her wrist. She freezes, thoughts fleeing like so much smoke as fear seizes her, but he doesn't make any move to harm her.

He looks up at her, grins, and speaks a single word.

x

(That's not really how it starts. It probably starts like this: six months after he proposed, he finally comes home from the assignment he was sent on the day after. He's tired and pale, a nasty cut on his jaw only half-healed, and when he slides his fingers through her hair as he kisses her hello she's fairly certain his hand actually shakes.

"Are you all right?" she asks, when the kiss is over and they've settled onto the couch together.

He's quiet for several long moments, appearing to genuinely consider the question, and she leaves him to it. She curls against his side, rests her head against his chest, and lets the steady beat of his heart sooth away the fear that has made breathing so difficult for the last six months. She'll never get used to it, she thinks—the terror of not knowing where he is or what he's doing, the uncomfortable knowledge of statistics regarding the average life expectancy of a SHIELD specialist.

She wonders if it will always be this way—if fifty years from now, when they're retired and elderly, she'll still wake in the middle of the night with her breath short in her chest, certain as the day she was born that she's lost him. She wonders if he'll get any better at soothing her when she does, or if he'll always flounder over _it's my job_ and _but I'm _not_ dead_ and _I'm the best there is, Jem, you've got nothing to worry about_.

(She thinks he might. She can't wait to find out.)

"I'm okay," he says, finally, when the silence has stretched out long enough to concern her. He sounds tired. "It was just…a long op."

"It was," she agrees, doing her best to sound cheerful—as though she didn't spend the entire time counting the days he was gone, driving Fitz mad with her worry. "But you're home, now, and mostly in one piece, even!"

He huffs a laugh and drums his fingers against the skin of her shoulder, where he's got his arm curled around her. She can feel the tension in him, how much he's still on edge, despite his relaxed posture, and it makes her ache for him.

"Was it very awful?" she asks, voice barely a whisper. It's quiet enough that he can ignore the question, if so he chooses, and she's almost surprised when he doesn't.

"Yeah," he sighs, and holds her a little tighter. Then he abandons his grip on her shoulder in favor of toying with her hair, which is not a good sign. "Yeah, it was pretty bad."

"I'm sorry," she says. She knows better than to press for details, so she goes with the only other option available and asks, "Is there anything I can do?"

This is a familiar exchange, dating back to the first days of their relationship, when he came home from a short op with a dislocated shoulder and a serious concussion, and she sat next to him in the infirmary and fumbled her way through asking after his well-being. Usually, this is the point where he makes some appreciative comment—_you're already doing it_ or _just being here is enough_—and gently changes the subject.

This time though, he doesn't. He returns to silence for some time—long enough that she might think he's fallen asleep, if not for the steady motion of his hand carding through her hair.

"Actually," he says, finally, "Yeah. There is."

Concerned by the odd note in his voice—a note she can't read at all—she sits up to look at him properly. She can't read his face any better than she can his voice, and it worries her. He only hides like this when he's truly upset.

"Anything you need," she says. "Name it."

He smiles, just a little, and takes her hands. "Let's go on vacation."

"Vacation?" she echoes, confused. "You…want to take a holiday?"

It's more than a little out of character. He's so dedicated to his work; he's happy to take a weekend here or there, fly her to some interesting location where he knows the language and all the local secrets, but they've never taken an extended holiday. She's already begun preparing an argument in favor of a honeymoon, for goodness' sake. This is sudden and unexpected, and she is now _very_ concerned about his mental state.

"I do," he confirms, and his smile widens at the look on her face. "I just…think I could do with some time away from SHIELD. From…all of this." He makes a vague gesture, encompassing their quarters—from the specimens she has sitting on the kitchen counter to the gun-safe underneath the hall table—and shakes his head. "From everything."

Concerns about his mental state aside, it's not as though she's _opposed_ to the idea of a holiday, so she smiles and settles against him again.

"That sounds lovely," she says. "Where should we go?"

"Why don't you leave that to me?" he suggests, and curls his arm around her shoulders once more. "It'll be fun, I promise."

"I don't doubt it," she agrees.

They let the conversation fade after that, and she closes her eyes, letting everything else go in favor of simply enjoying his presence. He's solid and warm against her, his breathing even, and she missed him so much that she nearly burst into tears in the middle of an experiment last week.

Yes, she thinks, and settles herself more firmly against his side. A holiday is just the thing.)

x

(Or maybe it starts like this: she's a few years out of the Academy, newly transferred to the Hub after an argument with the lead agent at the Sandbox got Fitz kicked out. She was invited to stay, but of course she wouldn't let Fitz leave without her, and so here they are.

She's called to the Quarantine labs in the middle of the night, dragged out of bed by a Communications officer who barely gives her the time to pull on her shoes. The labs are kept cold, in deference to the sensitive equipment, and she's shivering in her vest top and sleep shorts by the time they reach Quarantine 1-C.

"Agent Simmons," her escort announces, and then disappears through a side door as Jemma blinks at the scene in front of her.

Commander Maria Hill, second-in-command to the Director of SHIELD, is standing in front of the door to the Quarantine lab, arms crossed and face set. The man she's glowering at is a good six inches taller than her and a great deal angrier, but she doesn't look the slightest bit intimidated.

Jemma is impressed and also slightly horrified, because she's wearing her pajamas and her hair is messily braided and the ends of it are still dyed a shocking purple after a mishap in the lab last week, and she's standing in front of one of the highest-ranked agents in SHIELD and a very attractive stranger.

Not that either of them are paying her much mind, and she'd be glad to let that continue if not for the fact that she's freezing and exhausted and still has no idea why she's here.

"Um, you wanted to see me?" she asks. "Ma'am?"

"Yeah," Hill says, and turns away from the man in front of her. "We've got a possible biological contaminantion. Prolonged contact with an alien substance."

She blinks, absorbs _alien_ and swallows down her questions, because Hill doesn't appear to be in the mood to answer them.

"This is Grant Ward," Hill continues, and nods at the man in front of her. "It's his partner that's been quarantined; he can give you all the details you need. What I need from _you_ is answers: whether Agent Pritchett has been infected and, if so, whether it's something you can cure." She meets Jemma's eyes solidly. "This is _very important_, Simmons. It's vital to the overall safety and security of SHIELD. Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," Jemma says, and swallows. Grant Ward turns away from Hill and runs his hands through his hair, looking more than a little frantic. She imagines being in his place—having Fitz quarantined while she stands helplessly by—and feels awfully for him. "I understand."

"Good," Hill says. "What do you need?"

She takes a deep breath, thinks _alien substance _and _prolonged contact_ and _biohazard_. She gives herself a moment to panic about it, to worry about the enormity of the task ahead of her, and then lets it go.

She has a job to do.)

x

However it starts, the point is how it ends: He grabs her wrist and grins and speaks a single word, and something slots into place.

"Simmons?" May—standing by with an ICER in case this _is_ a trick—asks. "You good?"

"Yes," she hears herself answer, as though from very far away. "Yes, we're fine."

She returns to her task—to saving his life—and her movements are brisk and purposeful but her touch is much gentler. There are no more doubts, now. She knows exactly what she needs to do.

She gives it a while, because one does not recover from that level of blood loss overnight, and he needs time to get his strength back. Once he does, however—once Trip (back on base and acting as his physician; they think they're being kind by sparing her the job) pronounces him fully healed, she makes her move.

It's easy to take out the other agents on base. A few hours spent in the kitchen, "stress baking" batch after batch of sedative-laced brownies, takes care of almost all of them. The few who don't help themselves at her invitation are easy to track down and shoot with an ICER; they don't suspect her at all, even with their colleagues falling unconscious around them.

Once she checks the security feed and ascertains that everyone is out cold, she hurries down to the Vault. Grant is lounging on his bed, but he gets to his feet as she hurries down the stairs, and by the time she reaches the stand containing the tablet that controls his cell, he's right at the edge of the barrier, waiting for her.

She picks up the tablet and deactivates the barrier at once. She wants to throw herself into his arms—it's been so _long_—but holds herself back as she notes the swollen, angry wound on his wrist.

"I thought you were healed," she says, frowning at it. "Does it hurt terribly?"

"No," he says. "I don't feel anything." She doesn't find that particularly reassuring, and he smiles at her worry. "I'm fine. You did a great job saving me."

"You need a _real_ doctor," she frets. "You nearly _died_; field med and med-tech training are _not_ sufficient for the sort of care you need."

"Then we'll find a real doctor once we're out of here," he promises. "In the meantime, you're starting to hurt my feelings."

"Oh," she says, and throws herself at him.

He laughs as he returns her hug, and she sighs happily. It's been so long since she's really touched him—a whole month he's been locked away, and the last time she saw him before he was taken prisoner she…

She frowns, recalling with confusion her anger at him that day. She actually _struck_ him when he tried to kiss her! She has no idea what she was thinking, nor why she ran from him when Fitz caused a distraction.

She doesn't have time to dwell on it; Grant presses a kiss to her hair and then draws back.

"We need to get moving," he says. "Do we have an exit?"

"Oh, yes," she says. "Everyone is unconscious, and will be for hours, yet. All we have to do is walk out."

"Nicely done," he says, and she smiles, warmed by the praise. "Still, there's no need to press our luck by hanging around. Let's go."

She leads the way to the garage in silence, mostly because she doesn't dare risk opening her mouth. There are so many things she'd like to say—apologies she owes him, condolences for the loss of John (he was like a _father_ to Grant; how could she have celebrated his death?), questions about what they'll do next—and if she gets started now they'll be here all day.

Grant is similarly quiet, aside from requesting a brief detour to get him some proper clothes. He grins at her, clearly pleased, when she tells him she already has some waiting in the vehicle she selected for them.

"You've got this all planned out, don't you?" he asks.

"Of course," she asserts, and smiles as he laughs.

"I wouldn't have expected anything less," he says, and that's the end of that.

They're safely away from the Playground, stopped at a light six streets away, when he reaches across the console to take her hand and finally breaks their comfortable silence.

"Thank you," he says, lacing their fingers together and lifting her hand to kiss the back of it.

She beams. It's lovely to see him free, out of the Vault and without the misery that has clung to him since he was locked into it. She's so glad she was able to get him out.

"Happy to comply," she assures him, and he grins in return.

"Yeah," he says, as the light turns green in front of them. "I just bet you are."


	65. I never loved you

A/N: anonymous asked: "I never loved you"

* * *

"Put it down, Simmons."

Jemma shakes her head—not so much in refusal as in denial. Denial of the whole scene: May and Skye unconscious and restrained, Coulson conscious but wounded, and her best friend clearly in the process of helping her traitor of a husband escape.

She thought, when she learned the truth about Grant, that things couldn't possibly get worse. Her husband was a traitor who killed loyal agents and kidnapped one of her best friends; her heart was as broken as it could possibly get—crushed to pieces, really—and nothing could injure her further.

Faced with the undeniable truth in front of her—that Fitz, too, is a traitor—she has to admit that she was wrong. _This_ is the worst things can possibly get.

"No," she says. It's really all she can manage. "No, this—_Fitz_. This can't—you can't be—"

"Can't what?" he asks. "Can't be HYDRA? Come on, Simmons." He grins at her, boyishly smug as always, and she tightens her grip on the gun she has aimed at him. "_You're_ the one who can't lie, remember? I'm pretty good at it."

"No," she repeats, and forces her thoughts into order. She can break down later; for now, she needs answers. "This isn't you. You're—you're being controlled, aren't you?"

"Nope," he says. "HYDRA offers opportunities that SHIELD doesn't. It's that simple."

"Simple?" she echoes, incredulous. "There's nothing _simple_ about you being a traitor, Fitz!"

"Well, that's a bit harsh," he says with an offended frown. "Not to mention inaccurate."

"Oh, _please_," she says, and for a fraction of a second it feels like normal—like _always_; Fitz saying ridiculous things while she rolls her eyes at him for being silly—but Coulson twitches a little in her peripheral vision and it all comes rushing back. "You're literally _in the process_ of betraying us!"

"You can't betray an organization that never had your loyalty," he says reasonably. "And I've been HYDRA since the beginning. It was a HYDRA agent that recruited me for the Academy in the first place, you know."

_That_ hurts. "So…" she swallows. "It was all—you never—?"

"I never loved you?" Fitz completes, and then laughs. "Is that what you want me to say, Simmons? Because I—I mean, I could say it, if it would make you feel better. But I'd be lying." He gives her an earnest look, entirely at odds with the blood smeared on his cheek. "You're my best friend, Simmons. The best friend I ever had. We're partners. That wasn't a lie."

"I don't even know who you _are_," she says, but _that_ feels like a lie. Fitz has the same expressions, the same gestures—he's looking at her the same way he always does, and she doesn't know what to believe.

"Going well, then?" a too-familiar voice asks dryly, and Jemma nearly drops the gun.

She thought that Grant had taken advantage of the confusion to flee when she first walked in, but it's obvious she was wrong. Instead, he appears to have made a trip to storage, where they've been keeping all of his things (until Jemma gets up the nerve to go through them…if she ever does), as rather than the hospital scrubs they gave him after his first suicide attempt, he's wearing his own clothes.

It's foolish of her, but it actually hurts to see him wearing that shirt and those old jeans. It was easier to disconnect him from who he used to be when he was dressed like a prisoner (or a patient); in his own clothes, it's harder to think of him as anyone but her husband.

"I told you this was a bad plan," Fitz scowls. "You _know_ how she is about violence. We should've broken it to her gently."

"Hey, you're the one that said she would need evidence," Grant counters easily. "She's very—"

"_She_ is standing right here," Jemma interrupts, annoyed and slightly terrified. She doesn't know what to make of the fact that they apparently _discussed_ this—the manner in which she should discover that Fitz is HYDRA. "And as it happens, there is _no_ good way to reveal that you've been working for the _enemy_ for the whole of our acquaintance!"

"Acquaintance," Fitz scoffs. "Friendship, Simmons. You can say the word. We're friends."

"We are _not_ friends," she says, and he actually has the nerve to look hurt by it.

"Don't take it personally, buddy," Grant counsels, and claps him on the shoulder. "She's been calling me her _ex_-husband for months."

"What were you _expecting_?" she asks, incredulously, in response to Fitz's silently accusing look. "You work for HYDRA! That makes us enemies, Fitz. You must know that."

He shrugs, acknowledging the point. "Maybe. But we don't have to be."

"What—?"

"Come with us," he says, hurriedly. "HYDRA will welcome you with open arms; _you_ have to know _that_. A scientist of your genius—"

"No," she says, incensed. "I'm not going to _join HYDRA_, are you _insane_?"

"Why not?" he asks, sounding honestly curious. "What's holding you back?"

"How about principle, for a start?" she snaps. "HYDRA—"

"HYDRA is no worse than SHIELD," Fitz snaps back. "You read what they did to Coulson—how he begged to die! And that's not the worst of it. You remember that lab in Bolivia—that wasn't HYDRA, that was SHIELD."

Her stomach turns, and she has to look away. It's been years since Bolivia—since what they did—and it still wakes her up in the middle of the night, sometimes. There's no excuse for the orders they followed there. She doesn't even attempt to offer one.

"All of the questions SHIELD wouldn't let you ask," he continues, voice softening. "All of the things you wanted to do—all the requests they denied for not being _profitable_ or _relevant_ enough—HYDRA would allow. Complete independence in your work, unlimited resources…" He inches forward, closing a bit of the distance between them. "HYDRA offers opportunities, Jemma. That's all. The rest is up to you."

"You think I'd turn traitor for a better lab?" she asks, offended.

"Not just a lab," Grant offers, and he moves closer, as well. She wants to back away, but she's frozen in place by his gaze. How is it possible that he still looks at her the same way, after everything? He's a traitor and a murderer and possibly a _psychopath_, if the rumors they've heard of his activities before they caught him are true, but he still looks at her with such soft, fond eyes. "What about us?"

"What about you?" she asks, but her tone falls far short of the derision she intended.

"Come on, Jemma," he says, gently mocking. "The two people you love most in the world versus three people you haven't even known for a year? Even _I_ can do that math."

"I don't love you," she says.

Even to her own ears, it sounds like a lie—mostly because it _is_. She's tried—she's tried so _hard_—to stop loving him, but she hasn't managed yet. Even knowing who he really is and everything he's done—even knowing his body count and the harm he caused Skye—Skye who's practically her _sister_, for goodness' sake—she hasn't been able to harden her heart against him.

She's loved him since she was a teenager, fresh out of the Academy and full of hope. She doesn't know how to turn that off.

"Well I love _you_," he says, easy and unashamed—just like always.

She doesn't know what to do with this. It would be easier if he and Fitz were different—if they were threatening and cruel. Faced with this, with the two of them being so very much _themselves_, she flounders. How can it be possible that everything she thought she knew about them was a lie _except_ their respective feelings for her?

Fitz and Grant make up the other half of her brain and the other half of her soul. It's a longstanding foundation in her life, but it was fractured when Grant's betrayal was revealed, and now it's been shattered completely.

How is it possible that the two people she loves most in the world are both traitors? How did she not _know_?

Most importantly, what is she supposed to do about it?

"Come with us," Fitz repeats, gently. "What's left for you here if you don't?"

She's horribly tempted. She's spent months fighting her feelings for Grant, grieving the truth of him, and the only thing that got her through it was Fitz's support. How can she grieve _him_? Who could help her through _that_?

In many ways, Skye is like a sister to her, and May has been very kind and supportive since the move to the Playground. But Grant is right—she hasn't even known them for a year. She's spent nearly half her life wrapped up with Fitz, and only slightly less with Grant.

She doesn't know if she can survive without them. She doesn't even know if she _wants_ to.

So yes, she's tempted. But when her aim with the gun wavers slightly, Coulson chokes out a sharp "Simmons!" that brings her back to herself.

"No," she says, and firms her grip. "No. This isn't about my feelings. It's about what's right. And joining HYDRA is _not_ it."

Grant gives a heavy sigh, while Fitz shakes his head.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Grant says plainly. "But I'm not going back into that cage, Jemma. If you aren't joining us, you're gonna have to shoot me."

"Likewise," Fitz agrees. "If you want to stop us, you'll have to shoot us."

"Ball's in your court, Jem," Grant says. "What's it gonna be?"

She hesitates. This isn't an ICER, it's a _gun_. If she shoots them, there's a significant chance that she could cause them serious harm. Is she capable of that? Can she risk hurting them?

Can she _not_?

They fall to silence as she stands, frozen by indecision, with her gun fixed on Fitz. She can see in her peripheral vision that Coulson is fading fast; he needs medical treatment, and soon. And she's concerned by how still Skye and May are—they haven't even twitched during the course of this conversation.

She needs to act quickly…but she has no idea what to do.

The silence stretches on.


	66. I never loved you follow-up

A/N: safelycapricious asked: "In "I never loved you" 'verse, I want a phone call. You know what I'm talking about."

* * *

It's been a long, terrible day—which is why when her mobile rings just as she's getting ready for bed, Jemma nearly cries. Her head is pounding from all of the tears she's already shed today, her hands are still shaking from leftover adrenaline, and the absolute last thing she needs is further emotional torment.

But she has standing orders from Coulson to accept this call whenever it comes, so she picks up her mobile and hits accept as she takes a seat on the edge of her bed. She's too drained to pace.

"Hello?"

"You sound tired," Grant says, soft and sympathetic, and even though she was expecting it, his voice still makes her hand tighten around her phone. "Rough day?"

Jemma closes her eyes and tries not to think of the biological attack HYDRA launched today, of the six children who died before she could develop a cure for the virus. Predictably, she fails, and tears burn at the back of her throat.

She opens her eyes to stare at the wall, at the brick and mortar of this unbearable base which has brought her nothing but misery, and says, quietly, "Yes."

"I'm sorry," he says, sincerely—or sounding it, at least. "You wanna talk about it?"

The gentle question brings her tears to her eyes, and she takes a deep breath.

"No," she says. Despite her best effort, her voice wavers. "I truly don't."

She doesn't want to talk to him about anything, actually, but she doesn't have a choice. This is her penance for the choice she made—for setting her gun down and letting Grant and Fitz leave the Playground unimpeded, for deciding to save Coulson's life instead of taking the lives of two traitors—and so she must endure.

Coulson hasn't called it penance, of course. He says they need all the information about Grant and Fitz that they can get, and that the longer she talks to them, the more likely it is that they'll let something slip. He says that their insistence on contacting her so frequently is an opportunity and that they need to take advantage of it, regardless of the pain it causes her.

Jemma knows better. Grant and Fitz managed to fool _everyone_ for years; they're not going to let anything slip. This is Coulson—still so angry about what she did, even half a year later—punishing her.

Knowing that she deserves it doesn't make it any easier to bear.

Especially since the two of them appear to have some sort of preternatural sense of when she's had a horrible day, as they _always_ call when she's at her lowest. They call at other times, too—good days and boring days and what have you—but the one way to guarantee a call is to have a bad day.

Sometimes she feels like the universe is punishing her, too.

"That's fine," Grant says, still in that gentle voice. "Why don't I tell you about my day, instead? I'm on my own today, since Fitz had a thing—he told me to tell you he's sorry, by the way, since he won't be able to call tonight. He'll make it up to you."

Jemma exhales slowly. She'll only be taking hits to one side of her heart tonight, then. It's a small mercy.

"Anyway, I ended up in this Portuguese neighborhood for lunch—long story—and I had this really great _bacalhau_. It made me think of that trip we took to Lisbon a few years ago. You remember that? The hotel on the water? That museum you got us kicked out of?"

"_You_ got us kicked out," she counters, knee-jerk—her line in an old argument, and she hates herself as soon as she's said it.

It's one of the worst parts about these calls. Grant is solicitous and sweet, gently teasing or encouraging as the conversation requires and hilariously sarcastic about whatever's been happening in his own life—exactly the same as he ever was, essentially. He talks like her husband, not a traitor, and sometimes—for the slightest fraction of a second—she forgets that that's exactly what he is.

It only ever lasts for a moment. The pain lasts for days.

"Whatever you say, Jem," he says, unconvinced. "But seriously, that security guard wouldn't have been anywhere near us if you hadn't—"

"Stop," she interrupts. It's meant to be a command, but it comes out on a sob instead. She swipes furiously at her eyes and repeats, "_Stop_. I can't—"

_I can't take this today_, she doesn't finish, and she really can't. She can't take his reminiscing and his kindness and whatever game he's playing with her, calling her so often and being so _himself_ at her. She can't take it, not with the corpses of six children burned into the back of her eyelids. Not with Coulson's voice still ringing in her ears—_enough excuses, Simmons! Just _fix_ it before anyone else dies!_

"Okay," he says, back to gentle understanding. "I'll stop. It's okay."

"It is _not_ okay," she says—because it isn't. "Why do you keep doing this?"

"Doing what?" he asks, innocent.

"Calling me and leaving me _gifts_ and…" she breaks off and takes a deep breath, struggling with her tears. "Why won't you just leave me alone?"

"Because I love you," he says, sounding surprised—as though it's obvious, as though she should already know.

And that's it, she's crying in earnest. Today has been one of the days on which she misses Grant and Fitz so much she physically aches with it, and having him taunting her about it is just one straw too many.

Grant is murmuring soothing things in her ear, and she hates him and loves him in equal measure, this traitor who won't let her go. He's done terrible things—things that turn her stomach to think of—but he has never harmed her, or even threatened to. He calls and he asks about her day, tells her about his own and tries to cheer her up if she's sad, and she—she—

She _loves_ him, is the thing. Eight months since his escape, nearly twelve since his allegiance was revealed, and she still hasn't been able to stop. He and Fitz—horrible traitors that have done awful things—both still have such strong holds on her heart. If she could, she would cut them out, surgically remove them like the malignant growth they are, but she doesn't know how.

And though she hates to admit it, there are times she doesn't want to.

Today was horrendous—full of tears and dead children and she _wasn't fast enough_—and she spent so much of it longing for a kind word or a comforting hug. And she got them, of course she did—kind words from May and a hug from Skye every twenty minutes—but…they weren't enough.

She wanted Fitz. She wanted Grant.

They're traitors and murderers and who knows what else, but for a decade they were hers and she was theirs, and she's afraid that that's how long it's going to take to untangle herself from them.

So she clutches the phone while she sobs, lets her hatred and her longing and her grief fill her up as Grant tries to soothe her, and she can only be grateful that Fitz is away, because if he were on the line, too—as he usually is—she's not certain she would be able to swallow down the words that want so badly to escape.

_Come get me_, she wants to say. She knows they would, if she asked. They would take her away from SHIELD and she would hate herself—and likely them—for it for the rest of her life, but at least she wouldn't be fighting any longer.

She's so tired of fighting—fighting herself and her love for them and their constant presence in her life—and there are days—days like today—when she wants to just give in and join them. She wants to let her love for them overwhelm her principles and her morals. She can't—she _knows_ she can't—but she is exhausted and alone and she is so _sick_ of bad days.

SHIELD is where she's supposed to be. Today proved that. She was too slow and six children died, but someone who is too slow is better than no one at all, and if she hadn't been here—if she had joined Grant and Fitz when they asked—there would have been no one to cure HYDRA's virus. She's exactly where she's supposed to be—where she's needed.

But in the face of her grief, that doesn't mean nearly as much as it should.

Tomorrow she'll be ashamed of this weakness, of this sudden, desperate longing for her unending fight against her feelings to be over. She'll be ashamed of how tempted she is—how close she is to giving in. She knows that for a fact, because she's been through it before.

She'll hate herself tomorrow. But for tonight…

For tonight, she crawls under her covers and sobs into her pillow, mourns her failures and dead children, and cradles her phone against her ear as she lets Grant's words—reassurances that she did the best she could, that she's brilliant and brave and he loves her—ease the ache of grief.


	67. Keeping a secret

A/N: aflamingosanicelookingbired asked: "Keeping a Secret Biospecialist"

* * *

Grant Ward's relationship with Jemma Simmons begins on orders.

He meets her by chance after being exposed to an unknown toxin in the field. He and the six other agents involved are put through decon showers, quarantined, and then forced to wait as SHIELD calls in one expert after another.

She's the fifth scientist (and third biochemist) to be assigned to their case. She's the one who spends the longest with the agents themselves, asking question after question and monitoring their vitals (from a distance, of course) with a distracted frown while her colleagues are in the lab, arguing over the samples that were taken from Grant and his unfortunate partners in quarantine (group quarantine is the _worst_, seriously, he wants to kill Santoro by the second hour and everyone else by the second day) on the first day.

In the end, it's probably not a surprise that Simmons is the one to figure things out. The debriefing includes a lot of ten-syllable words and a lot of really impressed looks from the other scientists, but all Grant cares about is that she whips up a cure and gets them freed from quarantine.

He's exhausted and angry and literally _itching_ to cross someone off (preferably the idiot communications officer who sent them into that toxin-infected room in the first place, although at this point he's _really not picky_), but he forces himself to put it aside and track Simmons down after the briefing.

His cover would—awkwardly—thank Agent Simmons for curing them, and so that's what he does.

She's very casual as she waves off his thanks, dismissing it as just doing her job and a fascinating puzzle besides, but the way she stands just a little too close as she does it—the way her eyes follow him as he leaves—proves that their frequent contact over the last six days has led to her seeing him as more than just a patient.

He's not the only one who notices.

x

He never finds out who, exactly, clues HYDRA in to Simmons' attraction towards him, but three days after being released from quarantine he finds himself being handed new orders, courtesy of a very amused John.

"HYDRA's had their eyes on that girl for a while," he shrugs. "She's SHIELD through and through, so she won't be switching sides anytime soon, and the brainwashing doesn't work too well on geniuses."

Grant's familiar with that phenomenon—has actually seen it happen once, the slip from compliance to utter terror when an asset was in the middle of explaining some experiment and the rapid pacing of his brain outstripped his programming—but he doesn't see what it has to do with him.

"So because they can't turn her and they can't program her, they want me to _date_ her?" he asks. "Seriously?"

It's not like it's a hardship. She's a little too sweet and way too moral for his taste, but she's gorgeous and honestly a little hysterical. He won't mind spending a few months—or even years—faking an attachment to her. They're just weird orders, that's all.

"Keep your friends close," John says, and shrugs.

"Whatever," Grant says, and sets about planning the best way to casually run into her.

x

Grant is called one of the best for a reason, and it's not long before he and Jemma are dating. It's a bit of a challenge, because his cover is hilariously short on self-esteem for such a dangerous man, and Jemma, while not exactly shy, is smart enough to be wary of courting a specialist, but eventually they get there.

Starting the relationship isn't a problem. Neither is the relationship itself—Jemma is clever and interesting, so he's never bored when he's with her, and the sex is fucking _spectacular_, because the inventiveness and curiosity that make her such a brilliant scientist _absolutely_ carry over.

Even maintaining the relationship isn't a problem. Jemma occasionally gets so lost in her science that she needs to be reminded to eat; his frequent away missions, although they worry her, aren't a point of contention. And he's really fucking good at what he does, so it doesn't take him long at all to steer her right into loving him.

And she has so many attractive qualities—some more surprising than others—that it's not difficult to fake being in love with her.

Which actually _is_ the problem.

He tries for a long time to resist it, but eventually he has to admit to himself that he's not faking. He really does love her. And that's a problem because _she_ doesn't love _him_.

She loves his cover.

The Grant Ward she loves is sweet. He's cool and confident when he's playing a role, but as himself, he's awkward and uncertain. He's morally solid and a little uptight, concerned with protocol and orders and doing the right thing.

Basically, he's got little to nothing in common with the real Grant.

It's never bothered him before, but once he accepts that he does, genuinely, love Jemma, it starts to itch at him. The smiles she gives him when he makes a carefully calculated move or says a deliberately chosen word start to annoy instead of satisfy him. Her fussing when he returns home from an op grates on his nerves; the smart comment he's holding back would make her laugh, but only until she realized how far out of character it was. He can't even get the same kind of enjoyment out of sex—not when every sound she makes is coaxed out of her with hands so much gentler than his own would be.

Grant Ward, Agent of SHIELD, is a good guy. He might get jealous on occasion, but he's awkward and uncomfortable about it, more likely to glare and grumble and retreat into his own head than actually do anything.

The real Grant Ward is _very_ possessive, and much more likely to take action against someone who arouses his jealousy. Which is why it's so fucking inconvenient that the person he's jealous of is, essentially, himself.

He loves Jemma, and it bugs the hell out of him that she loves someone else.


	68. Ithink you sent that to the wrong

A/N: darkangelcryo and meghan84 asked: "I...think you sent that to the wrong person"

* * *

Jemma is only human, so she's not embarrassed to admit that she spends _several_ long moments staring at the picture she's been sent before actually getting around to reading the text that preceded it.

_Fully healed. Proof attached, as promised._

Ah. So _that's_ why Skye's brother has just texted her a shirtless picture of himself. He must have chosen the wrong name from his contacts list.

She scrolls back down to look at the picture again, somewhat wistfully. He really is an _excellent_ specimen of a man, isn't he? She's always thought so, but it's lovely to have photographic evidence. (Goodness, look at those _abs_. And the lighting in whichever restroom he's in has highlighted his cheekbones spectacularly.)

Such a shame that the text isn't meant for her. She wonders who it _is_ for; who is he sending shirtless photos to at nearly midnight? The last she heard (from a severely unimpressed Skye), he broke things off with his fiancée months ago.

Well, she really should inform him that he's got the wrong number, anyway. Perhaps he'll let slip who the _right_ number is.

_I…think you sent that to the wrong person_, she texts back. She hopes the ellipses make it seem as though she's feeling awkward, rather than desperately attracted.

_Shit_, is the reply. _Sorry, Jemma._

_Don't worry about it,_ she sends back, adding a little _:)_ as an afterthought. Then—still rather curious and also remembering the content of his first text—she adds, _Are you all right? Fully healed from what, if you don't mind my asking?_

_I'm fine now_. _Skye might not have mentioned this, but she shoved me off her balcony a few weeks ago._

"What?" she asks aloud, staring at the screen. Then she winces, imagining it; Skye lives on the second floor, so it could be worse, but there's nothing but concrete below her balcony. That must have _hurt_.

_That must have been painful_, she texts. _Why on earth would she do that?_

_It was an accident. Supposedly._

Jemma smiles. After nearly eight years of friendship, she's very familiar with Skye's convenient "accidents." Still, shoving Grant off a balcony seems a touch extreme, even for her.

_And what did you do to deserve that?_

Several minutes pass without an answer, and she chews on her thumbnail, starting to worry that she's offended him. Perhaps that was a bit too familiar of her; for all that she's been friends with his little sister since middle school (well, _Skye_ was in middle school; Jemma was already at university), they've never been particularly close.

Owing in part to the _ridiculous _crush she's had on him since the first time he came to pick Skye up from her house. It's only in the last few years that she's recovered enough to actually make eye contact with him.

_I told her I was thinking of asking someone out_, is his eventual reply. _She didn't take it well_.

_Apparently not!_ she texts back, heart sinking. Which is just silly of her; it's not as though she would've ever attempted to start something with him, anyway—even if he stayed single for the rest of his life, she doesn't think she'd ever have the nerve.

_Probably should have waited until she was sober,_ he adds. _I knew she wasn't gonna take it well._

Perhaps it's masochistic of her, but she can't resist the urge to ask, _Exactly who were you thinking of asking out? _She tries to think of someone suitably horrible, to disguise her interest as a joke, and all she can come up with is, _Lorelei?_

(Honestly, if he intends to date _Lorelei_, she might just shove him off a balcony, herself. Death would be kinder.)

He seems to agree, since his _Not in this lifetime_ comes swiftly. The rest of it takes longer, and only the '…' that indicates he's typing keeps her from withdrawing the question.

His answer, when it finally arrives, actually makes her drop her phone.

_And it's funny you should ask. Are you free this Friday?_

Of course she says _yes_.

After she spends a few seconds screaming into her pillow like a preteen, that is.


	69. Why exactly do you need chloroform

A/N: safelycapricious asked: ""Why exactly do you need chloroform at 2 AM?" Jemma and Lance brotp! To mix it up!"

* * *

Jemma hasn't been back at the Playground long, but it's already obvious that things have gotten entirely out of hand during her absence.

"Why _exactly_ do you need chloroform at 2 am?" she asks, frowning.

She doesn't quite have the measure of Lance Hunter, as yet—she only met him once or twice before she left, and hasn't had much chance to talk to him since her return—but she thinks she can safely categorize the look on his face as _shifty_.

"Why _exactly_ do you need to know?" he counters.

"Because this is _my_ lab," she says, folding her arms. "I'm not going to let you just take whatever you like out of the supply cabinets without explanation."

"I've never needed to give an explanation before," he says, crossing his own arms. She hopes he's not aiming for intimidation, because if he is, she'll have to be embarrassed on his behalf. He looks more pouty than anything else.

She thinks of telling him so, but then his words process, and she blinks.

"Do you make a _habit_ of using chloroform in the middle of the night?" she asks.

He clears his throat, the shifty look returning. "Define habit."

"I'm fairly certain you know what it means," she says. "Answer the question."

"Only on people who deserve it," he says. "Which is why I need it now. Because Lorenzo deserves it."

Jemma pauses. "Lorenzo."

"Lorenzo," he nods.

"That would be the man who insulted Bobbi at dinner, would it not?" she asks.

"It would," Hunter confirms. There's a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, as though he knows he's got her. She wants to send him away empty handed, just for that, but…

Well. Lorenzo _was_ unbearably rude. And being rude to _Bobbi_, who is amazing and brave and saved Jemma's life less than three days ago—that certainly can't go unpunished, now can it?

"Help yourself," she says, and steps aside so he can reach the appropriate cabinet.

"Many thanks," he says, with a smug grin. He reaches into the cabinet—and she feels an immediate kinship at the way he has to stretch to reach the upper shelf, because working with people anywhere from six to twelve inches taller than her _does_ get irritating—and pulls out the bottle, then pauses.

"Something wrong?" she asks.

"Not at all," he says, giving her a considering look. For a complete stranger, his gaze is oddly penetrating; for a moment, she's afraid that he's going to ask her what _she's_ doing in the lab, cleaning beakers at two in the morning instead of sleeping. But all he says is, "Could always use another set of hands. Care to join me?"

She means to decline. There's a comment about _bad girl shenanigans_ on the tip of her tongue, but she reminds herself—with a definite pang—that it won't mean anything to him. All of the old team knows that story, thanks to Skye's frequent (and enthusiastic) retellings—not to mention the puppet show—but there's no reason for Hunter to know it.

Oddly enough, that decides her. She may never be as close to the newer agents as she is (was) to the original team, but she'll never know unless she tries.

And really, whatever mischief Hunter is planning against Lorenzo, he absolutely deserves it.

"I'd love to," she says. "What exactly do you have in mind?"

He grins. "I'm so glad you asked."

(It is, as the saying goes, the beginning of a beautiful friendship.)


	70. The skirt is short on purpose

A/N: safelycapricious asked: "Biospecialist: "The skirt is short on purpose""

* * *

Grant is a professional with excellent control over himself, which is no small part of the reason he's survived ten years in one of the most dangerous jobs SHIELD has to offer. He is also, however, only human.

Which is why, when Simmons walks into the kitchen, he really can't help the way his eyes immediately lock on the hem of the _very_ short skirt she's wearing. Or, to be more accurate, on the bare skin beneath said hem.

He's never seen her wear a skirt at all—or, really, _anything_ that didn't fully cover her legs. And this particular skirt leaves a _lot_ of leg uncovered. He doesn't think he can be blamed for his moment of weakness.

"Yes," she says suddenly, pulling his attention away from what was probably a pretty blatant examination. He barely holds back a wince as he meets her eyes, but she's looking more exasperated than angry. "The skirt is short on purpose."

He's pretty sure he wasn't distracted enough to miss someone else entering the kitchen, but he looks around anyway, because that sounded like the middle of a conversation, not the beginning of one. Sure enough, though, it's only the two of them.

"Sorry?" he asks.

"Fitz already asked me if something happened to the _rest of my skirt_," she says with a little scowl. He doesn't mind admitting to himself that it's kind of adorable; he's had time to get used to how ridiculously attracted to her he is. "And Skye offered to lend me a pair of jeans if something happened to mine." She doesn't exactly _slam_ her mug onto the counter, but she definitely sets it down harder than she usually would. "So I thought I would save you the trouble of asking and tell you that _yes_, I am perfectly aware of how short my skirt is."

"Ah," he says—because really, what _can_ he say to that? "Got it."

"I don't know what's so bad about this skirt anyway," she mutters.

He knows that it was aimed more at herself than at him, but at that exact moment she goes on her toes to pull a box of tea out of the pantry, and it makes the skirt rise even higher on the backs of her thighs—which is why a _very _sincere, "Absolutely nothing" slips out before he can stop it.

It might've been _too_ sincere—or too quick—because she gives him a thoughtful look over her shoulder.

"Oh?" she asks. Tea retrieved, she sinks back onto her heels, and the absent way she smooths her skirt down as she does so is pretty much the last straw.

He needs to leave before he does something stupid. (And the fact that it's actually a risk would be laughable if it weren't so horrifying; he's spent more than a decade betting his life on his self-control, and now, after only a few months, this tiny—gorgeous—scientist has reduced him to the point of fleeing her presence in order to maintain it. Somewhere, Garrett is laughing his ass off and he has no idea why.)

So he clears his throat, grabs his sandwich from the counter, and mutters a vague, "Yeah, it's nice," before—there's no other way to put it—fleeing.

If nothing else, this whole team thing has definitely done a lot for his understanding of the concept of _discretion is the better part of valor_.


	71. I'm going to need you to put on some

A/N: swashbucklerswan asked: ""I'm going to need you to put on some underwear before you say anything else" with Biospecialist, please"

* * *

Jemma is three sentences into a very carefully planned speech when Ward interrupts.

"Okay, wait," he says, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I'm going to need you to put on some underwear before you say anything else."

She frowns. "Why?"

"Because this sounds like it's gonna turn into an emotional conversation and I'm finding it a little difficult to concentrate," he answers pointedly, running his eyes over her. His gaze is heated enough that she can almost _feel_ it like a physical touch, and she suppresses a shiver.

"That is _exactly_ my point," she says, but retrieves her underwear (her bra is on the lampshade and her panties are hanging from the doorknob; she's almost certain he did that deliberately) anyway. Another round and there's no way she'll be walking tomorrow; as it is, she's already feeling rather sore.

"…Your point is that I enjoy looking at you when you're naked?" he asks, a little uncertainly.

She considers the way his eyes are lingering on her upper chest—or, more precisely, the several, quickly reddening marks he _left_ on her upper chest, which will undoubtedly be bruises tomorrow—and pulls on her shirt, as well.

"My _point_ is that I distract you," she corrects. She means to be firm about it, but she thinks it comes out slightly wistful, instead. She has to admit to a sort of feminine pride about the whole thing—Ward is so stoic (or uptight, as Skye puts it) most of the time, and she's enjoyed her apparent ability to shake him. No one would ever believe her if she told them just what was lurking under the surface of Ward's awkward, straight-laced demeanor.

Of course, to be fair, it's not as though anyone would believe anything _Ward_ might say about _her_, either.

Anyway, yes, she's enjoyed this. Ward is an _extremely_ talented lover, and she's had fun with him. She's even started to find him more likable _outside_ of their sexual encounters, and has the impression that he's feeling the same of her—which is why this needs to end.

Ward turns away to pick up and pull on his jeans, but she can tell by the tense line of his shoulders that her words have had some effect. What effect that might be, she has no idea. He's _different_ when it's just the two of them, but that doesn't mean he's any easier to read.

"Don't I?" she prompts, and he sighs.

"You do," he allows, grudgingly. He's fiddling with his shirt, but hasn't pulled it on yet, and she has the sneaking suspicion that he's using it as an excuse not to look at her. Which is fair enough; she doesn't particularly want to look at _him_ for this.

As such, she busies herself with pulling on her own jeans as she continues, "We agreed that this would stay strictly sexual, so as not to interfere with the team at all. And it hasn't, has it?"

"Interfered with the team, or stayed strictly sexual?" he asks, turning back to face her. He's still not wearing his shirt, which is entirely unfair.

He's not the only one who's been distracted.

"Either," she says, crossing her arms. "Both! It hasn't interfered with the team _yet_, but if we continue on our current course it almost assuredly will."

Ward sighs. "You're right." He pulls his shirt on, finally, and shoves his feet into his boots without bothering with his socks. "You're a…" He hesitates, something passing over his face, and sighs again. "A distraction. I can't afford to have my focus split."

Which is pretty much what he said when they first started this, and the reason they agreed to keep it free of feelings. She must admit to a level of disconcertment at how she's struggled with that; she's never had any difficulty with casual sex before.

"Nor can I," she agrees honestly. Just because she doesn't _shoot_ people doesn't mean she's not poorly served by being diverted during working hours. Her job requires concentration and focus, two things which she's been sorely lacking around Ward, lately. "So, we're done, then."

"We're done," he echoes. In the name of making this as easy as possible, she kindly ignores how heavy his voice sounds. "Friends?"

"Friends," she says, and determinedly pretends not to notice the way her heart flutters as she does so. "And nothing more."

"Right." He's been lingering on the other side of the bed, keeping as much space between them as possible for the conversation (something she does appreciate), but he finally rounds it to approach her.

He stops closely enough that she has to tip her head back to meet his eyes, and after a moment, she realizes why—she's standing in front of the door. She moves aside with an apologetic smile, and he gives her a little nod as he steps past her.

He's barely laid his hand on the doorknob, however, before he's spinning to face her again.

"What—?" she starts to ask, and is promptly interrupted by a fierce kiss. The rest of her sentence is lost; she wraps her arms around his neck and he wraps his around her waist, lifting her off her feet to ease the angle.

The kiss is passionate and intense, yet for all that, it's also almost unbearably tender. It's _definitely_ a goodbye kiss, and when it ends—when he sets her gently back on her feet—there's a terrible lump in her throat.

They're fooling themselves. They've gone far beyond friends, at this point.

But lives depend on both of them, and distraction is dangerous. So—as much as she'd like to—she doesn't follow when he clears his throat and steps back.

"See you tomorrow," he says roughly.

"Bright and early," she agrees. Her voice falls rather short of the cheer she meant to put in it, but it's the best she can do.

She tucks her hands into her pockets to keep herself from reaching for him as he opens the door and forces herself to turn away. So she doesn't know for certain whether he looks at her again before he leaves, but she fancies she can feel his eyes on her. It's…painful.

She waits until she hears the door swing shut, then makes a beeline for the mini-bar. SHIELD is picking up the tab for this hotel room and _also_ happens to be the reason for her break-up (and it's _absolutely_ a break-up, for all that they've both insisted they were merely fucking); she doesn't feel the least bit guilty for drowning her sorrows on its dime.

She knows this was the right decision. That doesn't make it any easier to bear.


	72. Superpowers dark fic

A/N: anonymous asked: "Simmons/Ward: unexpected super hero powers"

and  
my Lexi asked: "dark fic"

* * *

The problem with being inexplicably granted superpowers you aren't expecting is that you might not realize you have them until it is far, far too late.

After the explosion, Jemma is kept under observation for three days. She is never told what _caused_ the explosion, nor why her presence in the blast radius was such cause for concern; once her observation period is over, SHIELD apologizes for the inconvenience, assures her she's taken no permanent damage, and sends her back to work.

And if she has odd dreams after that, well…it's no surprise.

Her dreams have always been especially vivid and somewhat disturbing. She expects it comes with the _prodigy_ territory; her mind is always racing when she's awake, so perhaps it's no surprise that it doesn't slow down at all when she's sleeping. She's long since learned to live with it, of course—she hardly ever remembers the full content of her dreams, and when she does, she just brushes them aside.

Perhaps if she'd been a little less effective at that, things would have been different.

But things aren't different. She forgets—naturally or purposely—her dreams and moves on every morning, and she doesn't realize what she's dreaming—how she's dreaming—_when_ she's dreaming—until it is too late.

She doesn't realize that she's dreaming Truth until she's staring up at a body shoved in a vent and vividly remembering a dream from four months ago—Grant, with blood above one eyebrow and a nasty cut on one cheek, garroting a man in a dark room.

She stands back as Trip and Coulson pull poor Agent Koenig's corpse out of the vent, thinking furiously. She considers the cut on Grant's cheek that she treated yesterday and Koenig's relative lack of height and the exact angle of the lighting in Providence's lounge.

She considers the evidence, draws a conclusion, and, somehow, isn't at all surprised when Fitz reports that the words WARD IS HYDRA have been carved into one of the windows.

x

The other problem with unexpected superpowers is that realizing you _have_ them isn't the same thing as knowing how to _control_ them.

There's no time for experimentation—for carefully controlled tests, for observation, for repeated trials. All she can do is fumble her way through, and the only conclusion she draws in that first week after her realization is that she _can't_ choose what she dreams.

She dreams ahead and behind and, once, slightly sideways. She sees things that happened years ago, things that she think _might_ happen years from now (in one of them Skye is old and gray, and it fills her with hope and fear both, because Skye is alive but she is alone), and—just the once—something that she thinks might be happening at that exact moment, somewhere else.

(Or at least, it certainly makes sense that Captain America would currently be in the hospital, after that mess with the helicarriers at the Triskelion. She's glad he has a friend with him.)

But there is nothing useful, nothing she can use to help the team. She sometimes remembers dreams she had weeks or even months ago, dreams relevant to the present time, but she only ever recalls them _after_ the exact moment has passed.

So her unexpected superpowers—if that's indeed what they are, rather than some sort of mental break—are effectively useless.

x

Until Cuba, that is.

Fitz turns to get the DWARFs and Jemma keeps her eyes on the Bus, but only for a moment, because Fitz has barely taken three steps away before a familiar voice says, "Long time no see," and the bottom drops right out of her stomach.

She turns, slowly, to face Grant—and she's working on thinking of him as _Ward_, but referring to one's own husband by a surname one used to claim as one's own is _not_ an easy task—and finds his eyes locked on her.

It's not the look on his face—smug, amused, with a touch of terrifying possessiveness—that chills her blood, however. It's not the HYDRA agents who appear at a motion from him. It's not even the order to, "Take Fitz and give me a moment with my wife, would you?"

No.

What chills her—terrifies her—stops her very heart—is the sudden _memory_. She's dreamed this moment. She's dreamed him with that half-healed cut on his face and that grey shirt, Fitz with his blue plaid and his fake buzzer, the Bus full of enemies.

She's dreamed this moment, and she knows how it ends. She's dreamed being dropped from the Bus in a storage pod, trapped at the bottom of the ocean with no way out. She's dreamed Fitz's sacrifice, a gift of oxygen, and interminable minutes or hours or _years_ spent swimming desperately for the surface, dragging her lifeless best friend behind her.

She's dreamed a whole week of nights spent sitting at a comatose Fitz's bedside, waiting.

She never dreamed him waking.

She swallows, hard, as Grant stands aside to let the HYDRA agents drag Fitz—struggling and swearing the whole while—out of the shed. He waits until the sound of Fitz's shouting fades before he approaches her.

"Hi, Jemma," he says, and his voice is light but the fingers he brushes along her cheek are horrifyingly proprietary. "I was hoping you'd be here."

She remembers the conversation she had with Skye after they rescued her, the tight way she gripped Jemma's hands and said _he's fucking crazy, Jemma _and _he kept talking about you like he—like he thought he could _keep_ you after all this_ and _don't let him anywhere near you, please, I don't care what AC asks you to do, don't ever let Ward see you again_.

She promised to do everything she could to avoid him, and she meant it.

But that was before _this_—before she remembered those nights spent dreaming, waiting for Fitz to wake. Waiting for something that never happened.

"Why?" she manages. Her heart and her mind are both racing, and her knees are so weak she's forced to lean back against the window ledge for support.

She knows what she needs to do, and she's utterly terrified by it.

"Do I need a reason to want to see my wife?" he asks, and there's a challenge in his voice. He's daring her to say she's not his wife—to deny the connection they have.

If not for the dreams, she would. She absolutely would. If not for the dreams, she would spit in his face and tell him to go to hell.

But she's been dreaming the future, and the future says that _that_ course of action leads to Fitz in a coma from which he never wakes.

So instead she takes a deep breath, gathers her courage, and meets his eyes. "You still want me."

"Of course," he says, searching her face. She's surprised him. "Did Skye tell you what I said?"

"That our marriage was real," she says. Her mouth is dry. "That when you proposed, you did it without HYDRA's blessing. You asked forgiveness instead of permission, because you l-loved me."

"Love," he corrects. "But yeah." He raises his hand again, brushes his thumb along her jaw. "So why are you so scared?"

"Because I don't believe it," she admits. He'll know if she's lying; there's no point to it. "You're a traitor and a murderer. I don't see how love could fit into that equation."

"Hm," he says. "But I've _always_ been a murderer, Jem. It was just easier for you to swallow when you thought I was doing it for the good guys."

She doesn't know what to say to that. She can't think straight—her resolve and her terror and the tiny spark of anger she's been clinging to to make it through the past week are on loop, and she can't reach past them for reason.

"But that's not really the point, is it?" he muses. "Whether you believe it or not, I love you."

"Good," she says, and watches him blink. "Then I have a proposition for you."

She's shaking so hard she can barely keep her feet, even with the window ledge's support, and her voice is far from even. This is the most frightening thing she's ever done. Even throwing herself out of the Bus and into a thirty-six thousand foot free-fall wasn't this petrifying.

_For Fitz_, she reminds herself, and gathers her courage.

"A proposition?" he echoes, clearly amused. "You look like you're about to faint, Jem. Are you sure this is a proposition you want to make?"

"No," she says. "I don't. But I don't have a choice."

"All right," he says, and crosses his arms. "Let's hear it, then."

"Let Fitz go," she says. His face darkens, so she hurries on, "Let Fitz go, and I'll stay. I won't try to escape. I won't fight you. I'll work for HYDRA and—and be your wife and—anything you want. Anything. Just, _please_. Let Fitz go."

He's silent for a long moment, and she fists her hands, lets the sting of her nails digging into her palms ground her. She can't falter. Not now.

She would say that staying with Grant is the last thing she wants to do, but that would be a lie. The _last_ thing she wants to do is live those dreams—those horrible, horrible dreams of endless waiting. She can't do that. She can't lose Fitz.

And maybe she'll lose him anyway, because if she goes with Grant, she can't imagine he'll ever let her leave. But there's a difference between losing him and _losing_ him, and she can survive just about anything as long as she knows that Fitz is somewhere out in the world, being brilliant.

Grant is her husband and she loved him with all of her heart until she realized what he was. (Now she only loves him with part of it, a horrid, traitorous little part that just _refuses_ to let go.) But Fitz is her partner, her best friend—the other half of her _brain_.

She can't let him live his fate. She _won't_.

To avoid it…she really will do anything.

"Work for HYDRA," he eventually says, thoughtfully. "Be my wife." He leans in like he's about to kiss her, and she flinches before she can stop herself. He huffs a laugh as he eases back. "Now how are you gonna be my wife if you're too scared to let me near you?"

Oh, no.

"I—I can work on it," she promises, frantic. "I just—need some time to adjust, that's all. It's been a long week, and I—"

"Enough," he interrupts sharply, and she flinches again. He sighs. "Jem."

She looks away, cursing herself. This is more important—_Fitz _is more important—than her fear. She needs to move past it. She needs to let go of the things she's seen—dreamed—him doing and pretend that he's the same person he's always been.

It doesn't matter what he's done or what he does, as long as Fitz survives.

A gentle hand cups her chin and turns her head so she meets his eyes once more. His expression has softened.

"I understand," he says. "You've heard a lot about me and what I've been doing. You're confused. It's natural that you're afraid."

She swallows, not sure what to make of his sudden change in tone.

"I don't want you to be afraid of me, Jemma," he continues, and lets go of her. "So here's what we'll do. You'll come work for Centipede. You'll help our scientists with the GH-325, and every other mystery drug they're messing with. Can you do that?"

"Yes," she says at once, and pays no mind to the accompanying twinge of guilt. Helping Centipede achieve its goals is a terrible thing to do. Hundreds, if not _thousands_, of innocent people will suffer for it.

But Fitz will survive. That's what matters.

"While you do that," he says, "You're gonna wear my ring. You're gonna use my name." His voice and expression both darken. "And you're not even gonna _look_ at other men. Do you understand?"

It takes her a moment to find her voice in the face of the expression he's wearing, but eventually she manages, "Yes."

Her concern for Fitz has obviously reawoken the jealousy she thought he left behind years ago. That's…likely not a good thing.

"_That's_ how you're going to be my wife," he says, returning to a more casual tone. "Anything else—anything _more_—can wait until you've had time to…adjust. Sound fair?"

It's much more than she was expecting.

"How long do I get to adjust?" she asks, surprising herself.

And Grant, if his sudden smile is any indication.

"As long as you need," he promises, and spreads his hands. "I told you, I don't want you to be afraid of me. And in time, you'll see there's no call for it. So. Sound fair?"

"Yes," she says, and steels herself. "It does. And in return…"

"In return, we'll let Fitz go," he says. "Of course, we can't have him warning the team before we have time to get away, so…" He glances over his shoulder, then back to her. "Do they know where you are?"

She nods.

"All right," he says. "We'll ICER him, leave him stashed somewhere safe. By the time he wakes up, we'll be long gone."

"Good," she says. It's not good. It's the furthest thing from good. She's going to be party to Centipede's crimes—to every horrid thing it does, every unwilling soldier it conscripts into HYDRA's service.

But Fitz will survive. That's enough.

It has to be.

"Good," Grant echoes, and offers his hand. "Come on."

Her hand shakes as she places it in his. He lifts it to his mouth and presses a soft kiss to her knuckles.

"You'll see," he says quietly. "You've got nothing to fear from me."

She wishes she believed him.


	73. Sex pollen

A/N: anonymous asked: "Can you do sex pollen for Ward/Simmons?"

(nb: this drabble is entirely unrelated to the sex pollen fic I will be posting sometime later today)

* * *

Jemma feels strangely warm.

Usually they keep the lab cool, as much of their equipment is very delicate and sensitive to heat, but something must be wrong with the temperature control, because Jemma is actually _sweating_.

She takes off her lab coat and drapes it over the back of a stool, but that doesn't help much, so she pulls off her jumper, as well. Then she rolls up her sleeves and returns her attention to her microscope.

The heat makes it difficult to focus, however, and her mind wanders. Strangely enough, it wanders to Ward. She finds herself thinking of this morning: the little smirk he gave her when he was teasing her about her excitement over the unusual vegetation they found at the scene, the easy way he lifted the heavy equipment cases, the way his hand pressed against her shoulder to keep her from moving when he heard someone coming…

Her mind wanders even further, picturing Ward's hands, his long, deceptively elegant fingers, and imagining what they might feel like on her bare skin…

A noise from the cargo bay snaps her back to reality, and she jumps, startled and confused. What on _earth_?

Ward is a very attractive man, and Jemma has done her fair share of admiring him. But actually _fantasizing_ about him? And in the lab, of all places?

She shakes herself a little and turns away from her workstation. She obviously won't be getting any work done for the moment. Perhaps she'll go take a shower.

Her mind—or libido, rather—instantly offers several helpful suggestions of what Ward might be capable of in the shower, and she brushes them aside, slightly horrified. (Not intrigued. _Definitely_ not.) Perhaps a _cold_ shower would be best.

However, it's not to be. She's barely taken two steps away from her workstation when she realizes what the earlier noise that distracted her was—Ward is in the cargo bay, working at his punching bag. And he must be feeling warm, too, as he's removed his shirt.

Her mouth goes dry as she watches him. He really is an excellent specimen. She stands frozen, almost hypnotized by the play of muscles in his back and arms, and can't stop herself from pondering how they might feel under her fingers—or her tongue.

She's heard fighting be compared to dancing before, but personally, she's never seen it. She doesn't see it now. There's nothing poetic about Ward's movements, and though there _is_ an odd grace about them, it's a brutal one. Ward is pure violence at the moment, and she can't help the way her mind automatically calculates the force behind the punches he aims at the bag—can't help picturing what that sort of force would do to a _human_ target.

Jemma doesn't like violence. She understands the necessity of it, in their line of work, and she doesn't hold it against Ward, but for itself, she finds violence abhorrent.

So she's utterly baffled by the clench low in her abdomen and the racing of her pulse.

The sight of Ward shirtless (and _sweating_), the way his muscles shift as he works out—she understands her reaction to these things, if not the timing of it. But that she's so attracted to the _violence_ of his movement…

That, she doesn't understand at all.

She doesn't have time to dwell on it, though, because abruptly, Ward stills. He catches the punching bag and stops it from swinging, then glances over his shoulder toward the lab. Their eyes meet.

The low burn of arousal bursts into a bonfire, and Jemma is hit so hard by lust that she has to reach out one hand and steady herself against the table next to her. She can't even be embarrassed at being caught staring; there's no room for anything but pure desperation.

If he doesn't touch her in the next thirty seconds, she thinks, she is going to _die_.

Perhaps he feels the same, or perhaps he's just concerned about her sudden unsteadiness; either way, he abandons the punching bag and enters the lab at once.

"Simmons," he says, and his voice is lower than she's ever heard it.

"Ward," she says, and bites her lip. There's a plea in the back of her throat, something unprofessional and inappropriate, and she's not sure she _cares_, because she _needs_ him, like oxygen and science and _adventure_.

He makes a small noise—something indescribable, something she's never heard from him before—and closes the distance between them until he's right in front of her—until she can feel the heat radiating from his skin. She sways towards him without meaning to, and she barely has a moment to notice the state of his hands—did he forget to wrap them before attacking the punching bag? It's odd, usually he's more cautious than that—before they're cupping her face.

If she thought she was on fire before, it's nothing compared to this—to the overwhelming heat of actual physical contact—and that's it, the last straw.

She's not sure whether she kisses him or he kisses her, and honestly couldn't care less; what's important is that they're kissing, and his mouth is hot and hungry against hers, and there's no hesitation, no tentative overtures, just a fierce, _filthy_ kiss that would be enough in and of itself to set her ablaze if she weren't burning up already.

She slides her hands up his chest, bare skin and gorgeous muscle she's only ever felt through gloves before, and he's so warm and firm under her fingers and suddenly all she can think about is having _her_ bare skin pressing against his.

But before she can move to remove her blouse, he's wrapping his hands around her waist and turning, depositing her on the lab table nearest the door. The kiss doesn't falter in the slightest and he gives no sign of struggling against her weight, and his strength and surety are so attractive that she almost whimpers.

The burning in her lungs from lack of oxygen is becoming a problem, though, so she wrenches herself away from him, gasping for air. Apparently unbothered, he switches his focus to her throat, and for some reason the scrape of his teeth against the sensitive spot just below her jaw brings a measure of rationality back.

They're snogging in the lab and he's never looked twice at her before. This is wrong.

"Ward," she pants, and he hums against her throat. She shudders, as much from that as from the way his hands have snuck up under her blouse to hold her steady, and his warm—burning—hands against her bare skin are—are—

Damn it.

"Ward," she tries again. She's still breathless from the kiss—from what he's doing to her—and without entirely meaning to she finds herself wrapping her legs around his to urge him closer. "_Ward_."

"What," he bites out, then softens the harsh tone with a kiss to her jaw. It's distracting.

"This isn't right," she chokes out, clutching his shoulders for support.

"Feels right to me," he counters, and grinds himself against her and oh—_oh_.

Focus, Jemma. Focus.

"We've been," she manages, somehow, to say as he kisses and bites his way down her neck, "We've been affected by something."

"I don't care," he mutters against her skin, and sucks a bruise into the juncture of her neck and shoulder. "Wanted you for _months_, I don't give a _fuck_ what's causing it if it means I get to have you—"

There's enough desire in his voice to make her shiver and the words themselves are more than a little intriguing (months? Really?), but this is _important_ and so she digs her nails into his skin, trying to get him to focus—trying to get him to stop, for a moment, with his mouth and his hands and his unbearably warm skin beneath her fingers, before she forgets why it matters.

"May," she gasps, and that's enough to give him pause. "May, you're sleeping with May, she's going to _kill_ me—"

His dark chuckle makes her shiver again, and she can't keep her hands still any longer, so she slides them over his shoulders, into his hair, down his back, down his chest, down his arms—every inch of skin she can reach, she needs _more_ of it, her hands aren't _enough_—

"May's going to kill _me_," he murmurs, and he's so close that his lips brush against her ear and her abdomen clenches and _there's not enough skin_—

She forces herself to let go of him, to fumble with the buttons of her blouse, and part of her still knows this is wrong but most of her doesn't care, and Ward is saying something else, something about how she'll be safe, but she can't hear him over the pounding of her own heart, and she's _sure_ that she's going to explode if she doesn't get _more skin_—

But the buttons are tiny and she's so desperate she's shaking and she can't manage them—

And she sobs in frustration—

And he swears—

Then her blouse and her bra are both gone and a strong arm wraps around her waist and pulls her to the very edge of the table, and it's her bare breasts pressed to his bare chest, and every brush of skin against skin winds her higher and higher, and she wants his hands on her but his hands—his hands are unbuttoning her jeans and one slips up to fist in her hair, angles her head for a fierce kiss as his other hand slips into her knickers and—

—and she thinks _fuck it_ and lets herself tumble over the edge of whatever this is.


	74. This is the tenth demon summoning this

A/N: safelycapricious asked: ""That is the tenth demon summoning this week, holy shit." Biospecialissssst"

* * *

"Seriously?" Skye demands, annoyed. "This is the tenth demon summoning this _week_, holy shit." She kicks at a spare candle, sending it rolling across the concrete floor. "When are they gonna stop?"

Jemma gives her a quelling look, but honestly, she's just as annoyed. She probably shouldn't be; as agents of the Supernatural-Human Intervention, Enforcement of Law Division, it's their duty to investigate and clean up this sort of thing.

Still, ever since the disaster in New York two years ago revealed the existence of the supernatural to the general public, the frequency of the incidents their team gets sent out to investigate has more than quadrupled. It truly is getting aggravating, at this point.

Thinking longingly of the time when they got actual days off and downtime between missions, she sighs and stands.

"At least it wasn't successful," she says, trying for optimism. She's even more tired of running for her life from angry demons than she is of investigating unauthorized rituals. "This circle couldn't summon a border collie."

"_That's_ a bright side," Trip agrees. He doesn't reholster his gun, but he's looking much more relaxed as he pushes off the pile of boxes he's been leaning on. "I'm getting real sick of almost dying."

"Ditto," Skye says.

May doesn't agree, but she doesn't _disagree_, either, which is telling. All she says is, "I'll go let Coulson know he can call in a clean-up crew."

Trip tilts his head a little as she leaves, a familiar expression crossing his face. His supernaturally-enhanced senses (standard issue for all SHIELD specialists, of course) have obviously picked up on something.

"Sounds like the locals are having trouble with crowd control," he says. "You two gonna be okay while I take care of it?"

According to protocol, the ritual site can't be left unattended until it's been cleansed. There's no danger in it, really, but it's still a wise precaution.

"We'll be…" she starts to assure him, but her eyes catch on an interesting symbol on the opposite wall, distracting her. Immediately forgetting Trip, she crosses the room to examine it, carefully skirting the summoning circle as she goes.

She traces the symbol curiously and pulls her camera out of her bag, but keeps half of her attention on Trip and Skye, just to be safe. Runic summonings are one of her (admittedly many) specialties, and she's never seen this symbol before, which is _fascinating_, but they're still in a room in which a very dangerous creature was nearly summoned, and it's important to remain aware of her surroundings.

"We'll be fine," Skye completes for her, fondly exasperated.

Trip hesitates. "Are you sure?" He gives her a pointed look. "Got your gun?"

"Yes, _Dad_," she teases, drawing it and holding it up for his inspection. "Fully loaded, I promise."

"Okay," he says. "Back in a minute." He pats Jemma's shoulder as he passes her on his way to the door and adds, "Don't let Simmons fall into another portal."

"That only happened once," she calls after him, more amused than annoyed. No one is _ever_ going to let her live that down.

"Once is enough," he throws over his shoulder.

She grumbles a little to herself as she returns to documenting the interesting rune, but it's an old joke, and she quickly forgets it in favor of her new puzzle.

She can hear Skye moving around behind her as she documents first the rune in front of her, and then others that she notices around the room, but doesn't pay her much mind. The runes are all, though not exactly hidden, clearly designed to blend into the background, carved very lightly and carefully into the brick walls. A suspicion begins to grow as she finds rune after rune, none of which she recognizes, and by the time she's circled back to her starting point, she's certain.

"There's something wrong here," she says.

Skye straightens. "What is it? Do we need to evacuate? I thought the ritual didn't work."

"It didn't," Jemma agrees, casting a disdainful glance at the summoning circle. "That's the problem."

"What do you mean?"

"Look," she says, crouching to indicate the boundaries of the circle. "These runes are inexpertly drawn—sloppy. This circle was clearly made by amateurs."

"Which is why the ritual didn't work," Skye says, crouching next to her. "So?"

"So, the runes on the wall are, as far as I can tell, perfect—to say nothing of the fact that they're entirely unfamiliar to me." She waves a hand at the circle again. "They were all inscribed at roughly the same time, but there's no way the same person who drew this circle carved the runes into the walls."

"Great," Skye sighs, catching on. "So in addition to whichever idiots thought summoning a demon was a great way to spend a Saturday, we have to worry about someone who not only _isn't_ an amateur, but knows enough about runes to stump even you?"

"Essentially, yes," she agrees.

"Awesome," Skye mutters, and stands. "I'll go tell Coulson. Be right back."

Their comms—purely electronic, as SHIELD won't spring for anything magically reinforced after the sheer number of comm units they destroyed in their first year as a team—won't work in this building. Even though the summoning failed—and most likely never even got off the ground—there's still enough power built up to interfere with the relay.

"Take your time," Jemma says, remaining where she is. She looks around the room, frowning, as Skye exits. There's something about the placement of the runes on the wall in relation to the circle…

"Finally. I thought she'd never leave."

Jemma's blood runs cold, and she slowly looks up to find a man who _assuredly_ was not there two seconds ago leaning against the wall opposite her.

No. Not a man.

He _looks_ like one, but he's not. It's the prickling along her spine that tips her off, but she lets her vision slide into the extra spectrum to be certain, and _there_ it is quite obvious. Power literally radiates from him, glowing along the sharply defined lines of his (gorgeous) face, and there's a dark aura swirling around his feet.

Throat dry, she blinks back into the normal spectrum.

He's a demon.

"The summoning failed," she says, somewhat inanely. Her heart is racing; the last time she faced down a demon, she barely escaped unscathed, and that was _with_ her entire team at her back.

To say nothing of the fact that this demon is at least twice as powerful as that one was.

"Miserably," he agrees, with a one-shouldered shrug. "But I was in the neighborhood, and it caught my attention. Thought I'd check it out."

She stands slowly, keeping her eyes on him. She knows better than to try and run; even if he isn't capable of teleportation (though she suspects he is, considering the level of power she saw on him), physically speaking he must have nearly a foot on her. He wouldn't need power to beat her to the door.

"Why?" she asks.

He gives her a slow smile, and her heart thumps hard in her chest. He really is stunningly attractive. That's not a good thing; it's the handsome ones that are the most dangerous.

Most lower-level demons are monstrous and terrifying. Covered in horns and tails and scales and what have you, they'd give anyone nightmares—but they're not the ones to fear. To be cautious of, certainly, as they're far from harmless, but they're certainly preferable over the ones who _aren't_ visibly monstrous.

Powerful demons—higher-level demons—keep their evil on the inside. They're the ones who cause mass destruction, who sow chaos and kill thousands at a time.

The last time—the only other time—the team encountered a high-level demon, it didn't end well. Coulson was tortured for three days and nearly died, Trip was thrown out of a fourth-floor window and nearly died, and Jemma spent ten hours trapped on the roof of a sixty-story building, _wishing_ she were dead.

And _that_—she—was a demon who had actually been summoned against them. The fact that this one apparently wandered across her of his own free will is, to be frank, utterly terrifying.

Though not as terrifying as his response.

"I was looking for you, actually," he says. Her heart stops. "Jemma Simmons."

She swallows. Contrary to popular mythology, there's never been any evidence that names have any particular sort of power, and within SHIELD, the concept is generally accepted as a mere fairytale. Official policy states that there's no supernatural harm in giving out one's name. But something about the way his voice wraps around hers makes her wonder if perhaps they've been mistaken.

Of course, him knowing her name is nowhere near as frightening as the fact that he's apparently been looking for her.

"And why were you looking for me?" she asks. She's proud of how even her voice is, as she herself is feeling incredibly unsteady.

His eyes flicker away from hers, towards the door, and he scowls.

"That'll have to wait," he says, clearly annoyed, but his scowl fades into a smirk as he returns his attention to her. She looks away before she can stop herself, unsettled by the intensity in his eyes; she can't interpret it, but it can't possibly mean anything good.

Between one blink and the next, he disappears from his spot leaning against the wall and reappears right in front of her. Surprised, she stumbles back a few steps, and he catches her by the arm before she can go any farther.

She can feel the heat of his hand through her jacket as clearly as if he were touching her bare skin, and her breath stutters in her chest. Burning warmth suffuses her, starting from the spot on her upper arm where he's holding her and spreading throughout her entire body, and it's—indescribable.

It's not painful. In fact, it's terrifyingly pleasant. She _definitely _should not be allowing a demon to touch her, skin contact or no, but she can't bring herself to try and move away.

He grins like he knows what she's thinking, but the expression only lasts for a moment. Then it's replaced by an expression she can't read at all. His other hand brushes along her cheek, and she closes her eyes, terrified by the contact and by the odd, wholly indefinable feeling in her chest.

"Until next time, Jemma," he says lowly.

Then his touch—and the accompanying warmth—disappears. When she opens her eyes, he's gone.


	75. So why did I have to punch that guy?

A/N: anonymous asked: ""So why did I have to punch that guy?" Biospecialist please!

* * *

The silence in the car is getting unbearable. And coming from Grant, who generally prefers the quiet and would be perfectly happy if Coulson ever decided to actually enact No-Talking Tuesdays like he's been threatening, that's really saying something.

But if the body language he's reading in the others is any indication, none of them are going to be breaking the silence anytime soon.

Which means it's up to him.

"So," he says. "Anyone wanna tell me why I had to punch that guy?"

There's a long pause. Next to him, Skye studies the passing highway signs like they're the most interesting things she's ever seen. A glance in the rearview mirror shows that Simmons is glaring at Fitz.

"Guys?" he prompts.

Skye coughs. Simmons' glare kicks up a notch. Fitz sighs.

"He was being mean to Simmons," he says, a little sheepishly.

There's an undeniable air of tension in the car as Grant considers this. He can tell the other three are on edge, expecting him to lose his temper—as well they should be, because he's pretty sure the way Fitz led him to believe that they were in serious danger in order to get him to the conference in the first place was entirely deliberate. If that whole charade was just for the sake of getting him to punch _one_ guy…

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "…How mean?"

Immediately abandoning the pretense of interest in the view outside of her window, Skye twists in her seat to face him.

"_Super_ mean," she emphasizes. "He was _awful_, Ward." She scowls. "I would've shot him but Simmons took my ICER away."

"You can't shoot people for being _mean_ to me, Skye," Simmons snaps. She sounds entirely fed up, and he can't really blame her. Everyone—himself included, honestly—has been a little overprotective of her since that thing with the CIA a few weeks ago.

As evidenced by the events that just got them banned from an academic conference for starting a brawl. Seriously. A _brawl_ at an _academic conference_—if anyone outside of the team ever hears about this, Grant will never live it down.

"Why not?" Skye demands.

"It was a perfectly reasonable response," Fitz says, nodding. "We could've avoided the ruckus if you'd just let Skye shoot him."

"Exactly!" Skye agrees happily. "Obviously I should shoot _everyone_ who's mean to you. Ever."

"Well, not everyone, surely," Fitz frowns. "I can shoot a few, too."

"No!" Simmons exclaims over Skye's agreement. "No you _cannot_! No one will be shooting _anyone_ on my behalf!"

"Again," Skye says, twisting in her seat to look at Simmons. "Why not?"

Simmons sputters indignantly, apparently at a loss for words in the face of their intractability, and then says, "Ward! Tell them!"

He takes another glance at her in the rearview mirror. The ponytail that was so neat when she left this morning is still slightly askew from the brawl, she's flushed with anger, and he's been totally unable to get the memory of her hitting another scientist over the head with a fire extinguisher out of his mind.

_He_ doesn't like it when people are mean to her, either.

"Skye, Fitz, don't be ridiculous," he says, calmly, as he takes the exit for the airfield. Then, over the sound of their offended protests, he adds, "Shooting people is _my_ job."


	76. Take it off (version one)

A/N: anonymous asked: "Hi! For the prompts, can you possibly do "You heard me. Take. It. Off." Thanks!"

(I actually got two requests for this prompt, which is good, because I had two ideas and couldn't decide which I liked better. And this got weirdly emotional for something that was supposed to be about sex, but I hope you enjoy it anyway! I promise the other version of this prompt will be lighter!)

* * *

Jemma doesn't scream when she comes downstairs to find her supposedly dead ex-husband sitting at her kitchen table on a random Friday morning. She doesn't shout or try to run away, either. She simply pauses in the doorway, stares for a moment, and sighs.

"Please don't say that rumors of your death were greatly exaggerated," she requests, crossing the breakfast nook to get to the kitchen. "It's far beneath you."

"Okay," Grant agrees easily. "I won't." He turns slightly in his seat to watch as she puts the kettle on. "Is that all you've got to say?"

She leans back against the counter and scrubs a hand over her face. "It's been a long week and I'm knackered. If you want a reaction, try coming back in a day or two."

"Fair enough," he says, clearly amused. He props an elbow on the back of the chair and watches as she fetches the milk from the fridge. "I like your haircut. Suits you."

"Thank you," she says, and it's probably a bad sign that she's honestly pleased by the compliment.

She should be terrified right now. She should demand to know how he's alive and how he found her and what exactly he wants.

But it's been a long, terrible week after a long, terrible string of them, and she's just too tired to pretend she's not relieved to see him alive. She never quite got around to making herself stop loving him; at first because she just couldn't manage it, and then because he was dead and it didn't seem to matter.

So what if she loved a murderer? He was dead; she wasn't hurting anyone but herself by it.

She doesn't know what to think of this, of him showing up in her kitchen more than two years after his supposed death, only to compliment her haircut and watch her make tea, but she doesn't hate it.

That's probably a bad sign, too—if only because Grant is _always_ up to something, and this time will be no exception.

But she's tired and she missed him and, despite everything, she's glad he's alive.

So all she does is offer, "Tea?"

"No, thanks," he says. "I have coffee."

There's a curious tone to his voice, and she turns her back to him, busying herself with assembling her tea as an excuse to hide her face. She doesn't drink coffee—honestly can't stand the taste, after she spent the entirety of her final year at university subsisting on nothing but it and crackers—and he knows it.

But she makes it every day anyway, has the coffee pot set to brew first thing so the whole downstairs smells like the dark roast he's always favored when she comes down every morning.

She missed him. She missed his touch and his love and his constant _presence_ in her life, even though she lost that long before his 'death'. Buying coffee and making it only to pour it all down the drain every morning is incredibly wasteful, but it's brought her comfort—a little piece of the life she used to have, a way to insert a little familiarity into her morning routine.

On her good days, it's just nice to have that. On her bad days, she lets herself pretend he's still alive, that she's just missed him as he slipped out for an early morning briefing and he forgot, as always, to turn the coffee pot off before he left.

Now here he is, _actually_ alive, and she has no idea what to do.

But she _does_ know that he'll be able to read all of that on her face right now, and she's not sure if she wants to give him that much power over her (another bad sign; it shouldn't be in question, it should be a definite no), so she stays turned away until she's regained control of herself.

"So you do," she says finally, and joins him at the table.

She keeps her hands wrapped around her mug as she settles into the seat across from him. She's always so cold in the mornings these days (which she knows is due to the fact that it rarely rises above seven degrees Celsius here at this time of year but, in her more maudlin moments, attributes to sleeping alone) and the warmth of the mug is nice.

Grant is watching her with a little smile, and the heat in his eyes warms her more than the tea does. She _knows_ that's a bad sign.

But there are worse problems to have.

"So," she says. "How are you alive?"

His smile widens. "I was never really in any danger of dying. Skye's not as good a shot as she thinks she is." He takes a sip of his coffee, keeping his eyes locked on hers. "You can tell her I said so, if you like."

Something about the way he says it makes her think he knows she hasn't spoken to Skye—or, indeed, anyone else on the team—for a long while.

"Why let us think you were dead, then?" she asks, ignoring it. "No one's seen hide nor hair of you in years."

She's absolutely sure of it. The team has respected her request for space, but she knows that, had they received the slightest hint he was alive, they wouldn't have hesitated to let her know at once. In fact, it's likely Bobbi and Hunter would've shown up to bodily drag her back to base.

"It was an advantage," he says. "Why give it up?"

Yes, she rather thought it would be something like that. Who knows what he's managed to accomplish in the past two years, with no pursuers to avoid and no SHIELD to thwart him?

She'd rather not think of it, actually.

"Why show yourself now, then?" she asks.

He shrugs. "I missed you."

It can't be that simple—it never is, with him. It might not even be honest. But it warms her nonetheless.

"I wanted to check on you," he adds earnestly. "You're all alone out here. I worry."

For the sake of her own questionable sanity, she ignores all of the implications in that statement.

"I'm not actually alone," she says instead.

"You're working with civilians," he says dismissively. "You might as well be."

Oh, right. Work. The whole reason she's awake at six in the morning, despite how exhausted she is and how terribly she's been sleeping. She checks the clock and winces.

"Speaking of which, I need to get ready. I'm going to be late."

An unreadable look passes over his face, but it's replaced by a smile quickly enough.

"Go ahead," he invites, pushing back from the table and standing. "I'll show myself out."

His easy acceptance _should_ be reassuring—if he's not making a fuss or trying to prevent her leaving, it's much less likely that he's up to anything nefarious, isn't it?—but instead, it stings.

Definitely a bad sign. She is in serious trouble, here.

"Really?" she asks flatly. "That's it?"

"Oh, no," he says, and rounds the table. "We're far from done." He tugs her out of her chair, to her feet, and the simple touch—after so long—makes her breath catch. "But I can wait."

"Oh, can you?" she starts to ask dryly, but she doesn't make it to the second word before he's kissing her.

She should shove him away. She should _absolutely_ shove him away.

Instead, she kisses him back. He's a murderer and a traitor and he tastes like coffee, but she kisses him back. It's been years and she's _missed_ him, so much—she's mourned him every day since Coulson told her he was dead; she even left SHIELD behind because she couldn't bear to look at the others, the others who were so _relieved_ to be rid of Grant, the others who would've hated her if they knew how much she still loved him—and she's just so tired.

She can't resist him. She doesn't even want to.

So she goes on her toes and wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him back, and it's so familiar she could cry. He's an entirely different person than she thought he was—she knows he is—but he kisses her the same, slow and intent, with an edge of heat.

She is in _so much trouble_.

One kiss becomes two becomes three, and it's only his watch beeping the hour that prompts her to pull away from him.

"I need to get ready," she whispers. (Unintentionally; she simply can't get her voice any louder.)

Part of her is expecting—hoping for, even—him to protest, even as she sinks back onto her heels.

Instead, he nods. "Go. I'll see you later."

x

Despite that, it's not really a surprise to leave the bathroom after her shower and find Grant sitting on the end of her bed. Of course he wouldn't leave that easily. He didn't come all the way to Alaska just to say hello and drink her coffee, and while he's never had a problem with her prioritizing work over him before…

Well, that was then.

So when the towel she's been using on her hair slips out of her grip, it's not from surprise. It's from the look he's giving her, a look with two years—three, really, counting the time that he was in a cell and she was at HYDRA—of pent-up heat behind it. She swallows, feeling suddenly unsteady.

"Take off the robe," he asks—orders—lowly.

Her heart starts to race. It's been years, but her body still remembers that tone—remembers what always follows it—and she is, abruptly, desperate for his touch.

Not good.

"What?"

"You heard me," he says. "Take. It. Off."

He's a traitor and a liar and a murderer. He's killed no end of people, some of whom were dear to her, and just because he's never made any attempt to harm her is no guarantee he won't do so now. The absolute last thing she should do is make herself even _more_ vulnerable by taking off her robe.

She does it anyway.

As she lets it drop to the ground, his gaze drags over her in a _very_ slow once-over, and there's a familiar clench low in her abdomen. A voice in her head is shouting about how ridiculous this is—how stupid she's being—but it's quickly drowned out by his next words.

"Come here," he says, and holds out a hand.

She's crazy. She is actually, literally insane—she must be—because she does. She takes seven steps (and why she counts them, she couldn't possibly say) to close the distance between them and takes his hand. Further evidence of the mental break she must have suffered at some point is provided in the way she lets him guide her to straddle him right there on the bed without a second thought.

She's entirely naked and he's fully dressed, and it's definite proof of her compromised mental state that she doesn't feel vulnerable at all. Exposed, yes, but in a thrilling way—a _familiar_ thrilling way. His jeans are rough beneath her thighs and there's heat pooling between them, because they've been in this position before and it's always ended very, very happily for her.

(It's something he used to do a lot after coming home from a long mission. He would strip her out of her clothes and drive her insane with his mouth and his fingers, bring her to orgasm again and again until she was a helpless, satiated mess, and absolutely refuse to let her touch him in return or even get undressed. She had her own theories about his reasoning back then, but in the context of what she knows about him now, none of them make any sense.

She hasn't thought about that in years. She hasn't _let_ herself think about it in years.)

His hands are on her waist, thumbs rubbing along her hip bones, and—to her complete mortification—the heat it builds under her skin brings tears to her eyes.

"What is it?" he asks quietly. This close to him, she can see the changes in his face. He's still gorgeous, the most attractive man she's ever seen, but there are new lines around his eyes and a faint scar along his jawline, just below his right ear.

It feels as though a fist is clenched around her heart, squeezing it, and she closes her eyes, trying to force back her tears.

"Jemma," he says, and one hand leaves her waist to cup her cheek.

She opens her eyes. "I'm fine. I just…I missed you."

He smiles.

"I shouldn't have," she continues, feeling the absurd urge to explain herself. "I know I shouldn't have. I shouldn't have missed you and I shouldn't have mourned you and I _certainly_ should not be in this position with you. But I did and I am and it's just…it's a little much, that's all." For the first time, she permits herself to touch him, to brush her fingers along his jaw, tracing the line of his new scar. His stubble is rough under her fingers, and some of the heat that faded in wake of her tears returns. "I never thought I'd see you again."

"Here I am," he says, and lets go of her face to hold her by the waist once more. "And why shouldn't you be in this position with me?"

There's a touch of playful offense in his tone, but she can tell it's a serious question.

"Because you're a traitor," she says. It's a reminder to herself as much as to him. She should _not_ be here. "You're HYDRA."

"Is that all?" he asks.

Before she can tell him that that's _plenty_—although obviously not enough, as evidenced by the fact that she's currently naked and straddling him and wishing desperately for his hands to move from their relatively chaste placement—he kisses her.

It is _not_ chaste.

"I don't care," he says against her mouth, as she tries to recover her wits. "About HYDRA—about SHIELD—or about their—fucking—war. All I care about—all I've ever cared about—is you."

He punctuates every few words with a kiss, and by the time he reaches the end, she's clutching his shoulders for balance, breathless and dizzy from wanting him. Mostly from the kissing, of course—he's always been excellent at it—but the words themselves certainly don't hurt.

"Does that assuage your guilt?" he adds, with a sharp smile.

It doesn't, actually, but…

But.

There's no point in fighting this. She wants it—wants _him_—desperately. She's missed him and mourned him and never stopped loving him. She could pretend that the horrible things he's done outweigh her love for him, but that's all it would be—pretense.

She's too tired to deny herself what she wants for the sake of principle.

"What guilt?" she asks.

"Good answer," he murmurs, and one hand _finally_ leaves her waist to slip between her thighs. (It's an odd angle they're at, but it doesn't seem to hinder him any.)

Her hands clench in the fabric of his shirt at the first brush of his fingers against her, and the heat in his eyes flares—but his face is suddenly, oddly, blank.

"How long has it been?" he asks conversationally, even as his touch winds her higher.

She can't make sense of the question. "What?"

"How long has it been since the last time someone touched you like this?" he clarifies. His tone is still conversational and his face is still blank and she's already _so close_ that it takes her a moment to comprehend the words.

When she does, she almost laughs; his fingers are clever and skilled and so, so familiar—she can't even _breathe_ right now, let alone count. How can she answer the question? How long _has_ it been since Providence, since the quick, sharp orgasm he gave her in the same closet he would later hide Eric Koenig's body in?

Even if she were capable of coherent thought right now, she wouldn't want to think about that.

"You _know_ how long," she says—gasps—instead, and he grins.

"Good answer," he repeats, and with a quick twist of his fingers, he drives her right over the edge.

It's the first of many, many orgasms he gives her that morning, and while she does eventually shove him away, it's everything to do with how sensitive she is and nothing to do with morals.

She's way over the line and she knows it.

But as she curls up against him under her blankets and lets the stroke of his hand up and down her back lull her to sleep, she really can't bring herself to care.


	77. Take It Off (version two)

A/N: anonymous asked: ""You heard me. Take. It. Off." for Ward and Simmons"

* * *

If asked, Jemma would have sworn on her Krebs Medal that she was entirely alone in the building. It's nearly three in the morning, the cleaning staff is always out by one, and none of her co-workers ever stay past eleven.

She's been working at this lab for nearly eight months, and she has _never_ had company in the hours between one am and six am (thus her habit of working during them). Not once.

Which is why, when she hears the door at the far end of the room close, she drops a test tube in surprise. It shatters on the linoleum floor, but she barely notices; she's too busy staring at the man who has just entered her lab to pay it any mind.

"Grant," she says, weakly, pressing one hand to her racing heart. "You startled me."

"Did I," he says flatly. He looks angry, and she eyes him warily as he pointedly turns the lock on her door.

His anger surprises her—she would've expected an insincere and light-hearted apology, had she thought past the scare she just got—but his presence doesn't. It should; it's been years since last anyone spotted him, and she knows that SHIELD has long since written him off as dead.

But she knew, somehow, that he wasn't. Knew that he'd removed himself from the chessboard that was the war between SHIELD and HYDRA of his own free will, and that he'd be back someday. Part of her feels as though she's spent every moment of the last four years waiting for this, for him to just walk back into her life without so much as a by-your-leave.

So his sudden appearance isn't a surprise. A shock, yes (and she's just fortunate that that test tube was empty), but not a surprise.

For all that part of her has been expecting him, though, she's really not sure what to say. She can't remember the last time she saw him truly angry—even at the end, when he was tormenting their team on a regular basis, he always seemed to be enjoying himself. Insults and attempts to subdue or kill him only ever amused him; nothing made a dent.

So she's not sure what to make of his clear anger. Part of her—the scientist in her—is actually fascinated by it, by the way the emotion manifests itself in this version—the real version—of Grant. Before, when he was her husband, living a cover with her, she would see his anger in the line of his shoulders and the set of his jaw. He was all leashed rage, holding back whatever was bothering him the way he held _everything_ back, and she would have to coax it out of him in order to help him work through it.

This Grant, though…

There's still a muscle ticking in his jaw, but his shoulders are loose. Most of him is, actually; there's nothing leashed about this anger. His walk as he crosses the lab is more of a prowl, and it leaves her feeling somewhat hunted. And she sees, when he reaches her workstation, that there's anger in his eyes, too—unusual in that she's never seen anything but love and lust and guilt in them.

He looms over her—also unusual; he was always so careful not to use his height or his strength against her—but even though he's obviously furious and has her cornered, she's not frightened at all.

She never has been. Even at the height of his games with SHIELD, even as he killed innocent people, even as evidence of the fact that she never knew him at all mounted, she has _always_ been entirely positive that he would never—will never—hurt her.

But she doesn't fool herself into thinking he won't hurt others, because he's done _plenty_ of that. So she shoves down the part of her that wants to reach for a notebook and record her observations of the differences between this Grant and the old one, and tips her head back to meet his eyes.

"Is there a problem?" she asks coolly.

"Yeah," he says. One hand closes over her left wrist and lifts it, putting her hand nearly at her eye-level. "This? This is a problem."

"Ah," she says, eyes on her engagement ring. It's quite tasteful, in her opinion—a nice platinum ring with channel-set sapphires, nothing to get in the way of her work—but it's also very different from the one he gave her, so many years ago. "I see."

His hold on her wrist is just shy of painful. "Take it off."

"I'm sorry?" she asks, looking up to meet his eyes again. She still isn't scared, but she _is_ a little uneasy; she doesn't think she's ever seen him this angry before.

"You heard me," he says. "Take. It. Off."

She blinks at him, honestly stunned by his tone. "Are you _jealous_?"

"My wife is wearing another man's ring," he says darkly, letting go of her wrist. "Of course I'm jealous."

She slips the ring off of her finger and weighs it in her hand, eyeing him thoughtfully.

"You've never been jealous before," she says.

He laughs. "Oh, yes, I have."

His eyes are dark as he steps even closer—close enough that she can feel the heat of his skin. Her breath catches, and she fists her hand around her ring to keep herself from touching him. It's been so long since Providence, since the last happy day they had together, but her body remembers him like it was only yesterday.

"I was always jealous," he adds, quieter, and brushes some of her hair behind her ear. "I just couldn't show it."

"Grant Ward, agent of SHIELD," she says—whispers—remembering how he'd mocked his own cover after the lie was revealed. "He didn't get jealous?"

"He didn't think he had the right," he says. "No self-confidence, that one." His smile is sharp, and she should probably be ashamed of the way it makes her breath catch. "I, on the other hand, have plenty. And I _know_ I have the right."

"Do you?" she asks archly.

In answer, he kisses her.

He's never kissed her like this before—fierce, possessive, almost punishing—and she should _definitely_ be ashamed of how much she likes it. She loved the agent of SHIELD, the lie he lived with her for so long—loved him with every fiber of her being and mourned the loss of him just as fiercely—but she thinks she's a little more attracted to the real thing than she was the lie.

The old Grant always seemed to be on the verge of _apologizing_ for loving her—as though he didn't think himself worthy—and she never said so, but she hated that. Hated the way it made her feel, the absurd guilt it instilled in her and how _horribly_ she suffered under the weight of it.

This Grant makes no apologies, only demands. She doesn't know what it says about her that she likes that so much.

She kisses him back, of course. How could she not? She goes on her toes and wraps her arms around his neck, ignoring the sound of her ring hitting the floor as she drops it. He has one hand in her hair and the other sliding up the back of her shirt, and heat trails along her skin in its wake.

There's a familiar thrumming building in her veins. No one has ever made her feel the way Grant does with a simple kiss—though, to be fair, this kiss is far from simple—and apparently _that_ is true of every version of him.

By the time she breaks the kiss, her lungs are burning and her knees are weak. He doesn't let her get far; one of his hands is still tangled in her hair, and he holds her close enough that they're breathing the same air and his lips brush against hers with every word he speaks.

"I'm going to fuck him right out of your mind," he breathes. "And then I'm going to kill him."

Before she can respond, he's kissing her again. He backs her up against her workstation and starts working at the buttons of her shirt, and she, despite knowing what a terrible idea this is—despite moral and principle and plain common sense, because she might have loved him and might still be attracted to him, but that doesn't change the fact that he's a traitor and a murderer—tugs at his shirt in return.

He smirks as she does so, rewards her with a bite to her bottom lip, and she allows him his arrogance.

Sooner or later she'll probably have to tell him that she's not actually engaged—that the ring is just a prop, a way to keep some of her more lecherous colleagues from hitting on her—but she thinks that can wait.

For the moment, she's rather enjoying his jealousy.


	78. Is there a reason you're naked in my bed

A/N: anonymous asked: ""Is there a reason you're naked in my bed?" for Biospecialist please!"

* * *

When Grant returns to his safehouse after a long day of assassinating foreign dignitaries to prove his worth to Whitehall, the absolute last thing he expects is to find Jemma Simmons waiting for him.

There are several questions to be asked—how she found him, how she got in, and what she wants, for example—but, being a practical kind of guy, he decides to start with what he feels is the most pertinent.

"Simmons," he says. "Is there a reason you're naked in my bed?"

"Oh, hello, Ward," she greets cheerfully, setting aside—is she seriously reading the HYDRA code of conduct? He could've sworn he threw that away as soon as he got it. "Finally home, I see. I've been waiting for ages."

"Seriously," he says, entering the bedroom fully and dropping his bag by the dresser. "What are you doing here?"

"It's funny you should ask." She leans back on her hands, putting her bare breasts on very blatant display, and Grant doesn't bother to pretend he's not looking. He always wondered what she was hiding under those sweaters and button-downs of hers, and he's not going to pass up the chance to find out, no matter how bizarre the circumstances. "I've been ordered to seduce you."

_That_ gets his attention. "Seriously?"

"Yes," she frowns. "Why do you sound so surprised?"

"You're expecting me to believe that not only has Coulson decided the best way to handle my escape is to have one of his people seduce me," he says, "But that he chose _you_?"

Simmons is even more gorgeous while naked—and she was no slouch while dressed—but she's also pretty much the last person he would choose for any kind of covert operation. And considering the games Grant's been playing since his initial capture, if Coulson was going to send anyone, he'd really expect it to be Skye.

"Come now," she says. "You've slept with May and kissed Skye, haven't you? You can't tell me the idea of making the rounds of _all_ the women of your old team doesn't appeal to your ego."

Well, now that she mentions it…

"Sure," he agrees easily. "But that's me. What about you?"

"What _about_ me?" she asks, looking a bit offended. She also, he can't help but note, looks a bit cold. He'd offer her a shirt, but he's not that nice. (Or that crazy; he's really enjoying the view.)

"You've told me why you think you can seduce me," he says. "But why were you ordered to do it in the first place? Last I checked you were a biochemist, not Mata Hari."

"Fair point," she allows. She uncrosses and recrosses her legs, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of what lies between them, and sighs. "If you must know, I'm being punished."

"Really," he says flatly.

"Really," she confirms. "I was undercover in HYDRA for a while, you see, but I got sloppy and my cover was blown. In the process of saving my life, the Director's only other mole had to expose herself, leaving SHIELD with absolutely no intelligence on HYDRA's operations." She frowns. "I'm making amends."

He actually already knows she went undercover—Whitehall mentioned it—and though he's still trying to get his head around the concept (seriously, he's seen her try to lie and it's painful; how the hell did she make it months in HYDRA?), he decides to leave that for another time and focus on what's important.

"By fucking me?" he asks skeptically.

"By lulling you into a false sense of security," she corrects. "In order to…well. The plan gets a little, shall we say, _murky_ at that point. I don't believe the Director actually thinks me capable of seducing you."

"I don't know," he says, and gives her a pointed once-over. "I'd say it's working pretty well."

"Thank you," she says graciously. "It's an unconventional method, I'll grant you, but I thought that since you'd be sure to see through any attempt I made at subterfuge, the direct approach would be my best bet."

He eyes her, considering. She's not _lying_, exactly, but he doesn't think she's being totally honest, either.

"Well, the seduction's going great," he says. "But won't it be kind of difficult to get intel from me when I'm on guard for any attempts?"

"You're always on guard," she says, dismissively. "Let's be honest, with all of the history between us, you'd never fully trust me. At least this way you won't waste time searching for my motives, as I've already shared them."

"Uh-huh," he says. "But if you _know_ it's not gonna work—and it's not, by the way—what's the point of trying at all?"

She frowns at him. "_That_ attitude is exactly why you're a villain, you know."

He stares her down, and she sighs heavily. It's a distracting sight.

"Oh, all right," she says. "The fact is, regardless of whether I get any information from you or not, this is an excellent excuse to not only spend time away from base but have sex with a nearly perfect specimen of a man. It's really a win-win situation."

"Unless I kill you," he feels obliged to point out.

"Unless you kill me," she agrees. Then she beams, rolling her shoulders a little. "But I think we both know you're not going to do _that_."

"No," he admits. "I'm not."

"Excellent," she says, brightly. "So? What do you say? Are we going to have sex? Or shall I get dressed and leave?"

Grant's pretty much a master of self-control, but even he's got his limits, and spending this entire conversation looking at Simmons naked has him _way _past his. Accepting her offer is stupid for a number of reasons, but at this point, he's just really not capable of letting her walk out of here.

"Okay," he says. "I'm game."

He pulls his shirt off and watches as her eyes dilate. She drags her teeth along her bottom lip, the first sign of uncertainty he's seen from her yet, and he pauses in the act of unbuckling his belt.

"Second thoughts?" he checks.

She straightens, fixing him with an unimpressed look. "Of course not. Just impatient. Even before the lengthy and mostly unnecessary conversation we just shared, you _did_ keep me waiting quite a while, you know."

"I didn't know you were here," he says, mildly, as he continues to undress.

"I should hope not," she says. "It's rude to keep a lady waiting."

"In case you've forgotten," he says, "The good guy was only a cover. I'm not polite." He pauses, hands at the waistband of his boxers. "And, just so you know? I don't do gentle."

"Good," she says, gracing him with a pleasant smile. "Neither do I."

He grins. This may not be wise, but it's _definitely_ gonna be fun.


	79. I wish I could hate you

A/N: anonymous asked: "Well, you did say they looked fun, so...#50 on the prompt table, writer's preference. :)"

(I chose #36, "I wish I could hate you")

* * *

The sound of the door at the top of the stairs opening wakes Grant instantly, though he's careful not to allow any signs of it to show.

He's surprised by the sudden company; according to his internal clock, he's only been asleep a few hours—it's nearly three in the morning. Still, there's no reason to _let_ Coulson know he's curious (and it must be Coulson, because it's always Coulson), so he keeps his back to the barrier and his breathing even.

"I wish I could hate you."

He immediately abandons his pretense of sleep and sits up, turning to face the barrier, because that's not Coulson.

It's Jemma.

She's standing right on the other side of the barrier, arms crossed, and though he swings his legs off the bed, he doesn't stand. He just pauses there, perched on the edge of his bed, and _looks_ at her.

It's the first time he's seen her since the day he was brought here, when she was (with clear reluctance, on Coulson's part) called in to treat his wounds from his fight with May. And even that was only for a few minutes; he lost control, a little, having her hands on him again, and wasn't able to resist catching her wrist and pulling her close. May shot him with an ICER for his trouble, and when he woke up, his injuries had been treated and he was alone.

All of his follow-up treatments were provided by some anonymous medic whose name he never bothered to learn, and his (many) requests for Jemma's presence since have all been denied.

So he takes a moment to just drink in the sight of her. She's as beautiful as ever, and, delighted as he is just to be in her presence after so many months, it's a few seconds before he stops looking and starts _observing_. She's dressed for bed (unsurprising, considering the hour), but he doesn't recognize the shirt she's wearing, and it makes him frown, because it's too big to be hers but too small to be his. Add to that the attractively tousled state of her hair (which is shorter than he's seen it in years, cut to just above her shoulders) and her flushed cheeks, and she looks—well.

She looks like she's just rolled out of another man's bed, is what she looks like, and for a minute all he sees is red.

It's only considerable practice that allows him to keep his face blank as he struggles with his fury. He's locked in a cell. He can't do anything about this right now, and blowing up at Jemma can only hurt his plans. As much as he hates it, he needs to let this go and pretend he hasn't noticed.

He has six different escape plans in progress. It's only a matter of time until one of them succeeds, and when that happens, Grant can find out exactly who's had the nerve to touch his wife and destroy the man. Then he can work on reminding Jemma _exactly_ how seriously he takes their vows.

For now, he needs to remain calm.

So he takes a few slow, deep breaths and shuts his anger down. It's not easy—in fact, it's the most trouble he's had with it since the day he touched the berserker staff—but he manages eventually. Then he returns his attention to his wife.

Jemma doesn't appear to have noticed his brief internal struggle. In fact, he's not even sure she's noticed that he's awake. Her eyes are on him, but it's obvious that her mind is far away.

And her posture, he notes, isn't as defensive as it appeared on first glance. Her arms are crossed, but not angrily; it's more like she's hugging herself. He doesn't know what drew her down here (drew her _out of another man's bed_) at three in the morning, but it's obviously not good.

"I _should_ hate you," she says, almost to herself, and it reminds him of her earlier words. She wishes she could hate him. "Why can't I hate you?"

She wants to hate him, but she _doesn't_. It's an encouraging sign.

"You know why," he says, standing. She startles a little, her odd spell of distraction broken, and takes a few steps back as he approaches the barrier. "Because you love me."

"I shouldn't," she says, miserably, and despite how much he hates to see her upset, he has to work to suppress a smile. She didn't deny it. "You've done so many terrible things—killed who knows how many people, betrayed us all, worked for the enemy…How can I _possibly_ still love you?"

"Love isn't a science, Jem," he says. "Logic doesn't apply." He spreads his hands in an admittedly unconvincing display of regret. "The heart wants what it wants."

"In that case, my heart is unbelievably foolish," she sighs, looking away.

"Or loyal," he offers. Her eyes snap back to him. "That's not such a bad thing."

"It is when it's loyal to a man with no loyalty," she says, with an unhappy frown. "And when it causes me to work against my _own_ loyalties."

He considers her thoughtfully, ignoring the comment about his loyalty. "What does that mean? And not that I'm complaining, but what brings you down here in the middle of the night, anyway?"

For a moment, she looks about to answer; then she just shakes her head, disgusted.

"Nothing," she says, and he thinks it's aimed more at herself than at him. "Absolutely nothing." She shakes her head again and turns away. "Sorry to wake you."

"Wait," he says, jerking forward before he can stop himself. The barrier flares, and he bites back a curse. "Jemma—"

"Good_night_, Grant," she says firmly, and he eases back from the barrier with a sigh as she heads up the stairs.

She doesn't look back once as she leaves, and he bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, struggling with frustration. There's nothing he can do to stop her from going and there's nothing he can do to make her come back again later. For now, he'll just have to be content with what he's gotten from her.

She called him Grant. She all but admitted that she still loves him, even if she doesn't want to. And she might be sleeping with another man—a man he is going to _tear to pieces_ as soon as he gets out of here—but she's still wearing his ring.

Right now, he just needs to concentrate on getting out of here. And once he does?

Well, it looks like his plans for Jemma won't take _nearly_ as much work as he thought they would.


	80. One night stand pre-pilot

A/N: anonymous asked: "Biospecialist, memory"

* * *

Jemma isn't often rendered speechless, but when a _thump_ prompts her to turn away from her argument with Fitz, only to find herself faced with Mr. 23 May, 2006? Her voice entirely deserts her.

"Fitzsimmons?" the best one-night stand she's ever had asks dryly. (She wonders if it's only her imagination, or if his eyes really are locked determinedly on Fitz.)

The question is a familiar one, and it kick-starts her brain enough for her to participate in the exchange that follows. _Not_ enough for her to remember social niceties—like asking permission before shoving a cotton swab in he-said-his-name-was-Luke's mouth—but she gets through the conversation without tipping Fitz off to anything being odd, so she's willing to consider it a victory.

She also makes it through the rest of their unpacking after his-name-is-actually-Grant-Ward follows Agent Coulson upstairs, but by the time the Bus takes off (for Los Angeles; apparently they're on the trail of the Rising Tide), Fitz is beginning to look a bit suspicious. So she does the only thing she possibly can: she makes an excuse about doing inventory of the storage pods and flees.

She does truly intend to do inventory—because a) it needs doing (for an organization with the word _logistics_ in its name, SHIELD isn't exactly the height of efficiency when it comes to outfitting labs, and she can only assume that a mobile command station will be no different) and b) Fitz will be more than just a _bit_ suspicious if she comes back with the inventory incomplete—but she finds it somewhat difficult to focus.

The night she spent with Luke—Ward—was very memorable. She's certainly never forgotten it—has spent more time than she'd willingly admit to dwelling on it, especially in the first few years—but seeing him has brought it all back in a way that nothing else has.

It's quite the memory.

The sex was truly spectacular, of the type that left her covered in bruises—some easier to hide than others—and struggling to walk the next day. It was, in fact, the best sex she's ever had. And even though they both agreed beforehand that it would only be the one night, part of her has always regretted not making some sort of effort to prolong their association.

He's one of her _what-if_s, a niggling thought in the back of her mind of what could have been. A pleasant memory to draw out when necessary, fodder for her fantasies, and possibly a missed chance. But that's all he is—all he's _supposed_ to be. Nothing more.

She never expected to see him again, and she _certainly_ never expected him to show up as her team's specialist.

(His occupation _does_ go a long way to explain some of the interesting scars she noted, though.)

She's going to need to remain professional, which is somewhat problematic. Usually she's the pinnacle of professionalism—tendency for her enthusiasm to outpace her manners aside—but how can she be detached and impersonal when the only thing she can think about is Ward's abs under her tongue? Or about his very clever and dexterous fingers? Or about—

Okay. That is _definitely_ not the right track to take if she wants to stay professional.

So she forces her preoccupation aside, puts the memories away, and pulls up the inventory list.

Work. She needs to focus on _work_.

By the time she's halfway through inventorying the second storage pod, she's regained most of her equilibrium. Which is, naturally, the moment that Agent Ward knocks on the doorframe.

"Sorry," he says, when she jumps. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"No," she says, pressing a hand to her racing heart. "No, it's fine. I simply didn't see you there. You're very…quiet."

"Yeah. Sorry. Hazard of the job." He crosses his arms, which—as he's ditched his suit jacket and rolled his sleeves up—is something of a distracting sight. "Am I interrupting?"

"Not at all," she says, setting her tablet aside in order to give him her full attention. "What can I do for you, Agent _Ward_?"

She puts just enough stress on his name to highlight the fact that yes, she remembers him and no, she hasn't forgotten that Grant Ward is _not_ the name he gave her when they were introduced. He winces.

"Yeah. About that." He uncrosses his arms and slips his hands into his pockets, and if she weren't so torn on how to feel about this, she'd pity him for how out of place he clearly feels. "Look, I know the last time we met, it was—we—I mean—"

"We had sex," she supplies, as he grimaces. It's fascinating, really; she remembers him being much smoother than this. "And you said your name was Luke."

He gives her a half-apologetic, half-accusing look. "And _you_ said you were twenty-one."

"Actually, I said I was old enough to drink," she corrects. "Which I was…in England."

He sighs and rubs a hand over the back of his neck.

"I'm willing to bet, however," she says. "That your name is not Luke _anywhere_."

"It's not," he admits. "I was—I didn't realize you were SHIELD. If I had, I wouldn't have…" He grimaces again. "I never give out my real name when I'm off duty. It wasn't personal."

"I would argue that what we did was _incredibly_ personal," she counters, amused despite herself. He's so clearly embarrassed, and after the shock she got when she saw him, she can't help but enjoy it.

"It was," he agrees. "But it's not…"

He trails off with a frustrated noise, and she waits patiently as he gathers his thoughts.

"I just want you to know," he says, looking decidedly awkward. "Luke isn't—I mean, that's not who I am. It was a cover. For practice."

It is, at this point, very obvious indeed that Ward has _nothing_ in common with Luke. She has to admit that she regrets that. Luke was hardly what she would call the ideal man—there was something almost _frightening_ about him, about his intensity and the possessive way he touched her long before they left the bar and the way he made the bellhop at the hotel go pale with a single glance—but he was, whatever his (apparently fabricated) faults, so very _interesting_.

It's a terrible thing to say, but Jemma frequently finds herself so very bored by men. It's not her fault, or even truly _theirs_; she is, put simply, a genius, and there aren't many men who can keep up with her, intellectually speaking.

Luke wasn't a genius, but he _was_ compelling, and he had a wit that was sharp enough and quick enough to keep her entertained long past the point she usually moves on to find a new conversational partner.

(To say nothing of how excellent he was at sex. That cannot _possibly_ be overstated.)

Learning he wasn't real leaves her feeling oddly bereft.

"That's a shame," she says, as lightly as she's able. "I rather liked Luke."

Something unreadable passes over his face, and he gives her a self-conscious smile.

"Anyway," he says. "That was all. I just—wanted to say that." He clears his throat. "And to ask…"

"To keep this between us?" she guesses, as he trails off. He looks so very uncomfortable, very much the stuffed shirt his file suggested he would be and nothing at all like the charming, hilariously sarcastic man she slept with years ago.

It might be unkind of her—in fact, she knows it is—but she finds herself disappointed that _Luke_ was the cover and _this_ is the real Ward. She'd much prefer the reverse.

"Yes," he says, looking a touch relieved. "For the sake of the team, it would be better if we just—forget it. Pretend it never happened."

It stings a bit, but not much. It's amazing, just how different a person he is when he's himself. Ward barely moves her at all.

"Of course," she agrees. "That's probably for the best."

"Yeah," he says. "It is." He knocks on the doorframe and nods once, as if to affirm that everything is resolved. "I'll just—let you get back to work, then."

Then he's gone just as quickly as he appeared—or so she assumes. She doesn't actually hear him walk away, so for all she knows he could've simply ducked out of the pod to linger creepily in the hall, but she presumes he's simply walking quietly.

She shakes her head and turns back to her inventory list. It's a shame, really. All these years, she's wondered what would've happened if she'd managed to get his number before leaving, or if she'd invited him to breakfast or made any sort of effort at all to prolong things past their one night. And now she has her answer:

She would have been utterly disappointed, because Grant Ward is not at _all_ her type.


	81. Ward gets tortured

A/N: anonymous asked: "Prompt: Ward gets tortured."

* * *

It's only been three hours since the latest round of Coulson's completely ineffective interrogation methods, so Grant is surprised when the barrier abruptly goes transparent again.

Not as surprised as he is when he sees who's standing on the other side, however.

"Skye," he greets, careful to keep his confusion out of his tone. "Long time no see."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," she says. She's sprawled in the chair just outside the barrier, a tote bag on the ground next to her and her feet propped up on the stand that usually holds the controls to his cell. "Save the creepy _Silence of the Lambs_ act, okay? I'm not here to ask questions, just talk."

"Talk?" he echoes skeptically. She gives him an innocent look.

"I don't really have anyone to talk to about my day anymore," she says sadly. "Coulson and May are super busy, Fitz is still dealing with what _you_ did to him, and Jemma…" She pauses. "You don't need to hear about Jemma."

He narrows his eyes at her. What does that mean?

"And sure, there are other people on base, but no one I'd really feel comfortable spilling my guts to, you know? So I've been really bummed about it. But then, this morning, it hit me! Skye, I said to myself, what were you thinking? There's a captive audience _just_ downstairs!"

She grins and raises her eyebrows at him.

"Get it? Captive audience?" she sighs happily. "I crack myself up."

There's no way she just came down here to pun (badly) at him.

"Why are you really here?" he asks. For that matter… "And what will it take to make you go away?"

She claps her hands. "I'm so glad you asked! See, Coulson's kind of irritated with how you keep refusing to give us any information. Which, I mean, it's not like we were _expecting_ you to cooperate—no one missed the Nazi douchebag memo—but, still. We're feeding you and you have this sweet cell and everything, the least you could do is give us something in return, right?"

"I'm not a Nazi," he says, flatly, in response to her expectant look.

"You so are, but that's not the point," she says, waving a dismissive hand. "No, the point is, we decided it was time for torture."

She pauses—waiting for a reaction, if Grant's any judge—but he just looks at her. If Coulson's actually reached the point of being desperate enough to resort to torture, he wouldn't be sending his precious Skye to do it.

For one thing, Skye wouldn't have the first clue where to start. Maybe she could inflict pain—although he doubts it—but it would be random and ineffective.

Torture is an art form, and Grant's pretty sure Skye doesn't have the knack.

"Anyway," she finally continues, apparently giving up on getting a reaction. "I was all set to break out the thumbscrews, but then May pointed out how dumb it would be to put anyone in arm's reach of you. And boy was _I_ embarrassed for not thinking of that."

True. To torture him, they'd have to get close enough to touch him, and that would give him ample opportunity to make a move of his own.

It's really too bad May's falling out with Coulson didn't last. If she weren't here to advise him, Grant could've escaped weeks ago.

"So, long story short, we've decided that your torture will be entirely verbal," she concludes.

…What?

"Verbal?" he asks.

"Verbal," she says, and nods. "I'm gonna sit here and talk to you 'til you beg for mercy."

"You're joking."

"Nope," she says brightly. "Just let me get comfortable and we can get started."

He watches, bemused, as she kicks off her shoes and draws her feet up under her. Then she picks up the tote bag from the floor and pulls out a fleece blanket and a thermos. She wraps herself in the blanket, balances the thermos on the arm of her chair, and clears her throat.

"First things first," she says. "I miss the Bus. Like, a lot. Don't get me wrong, it's nice to have some more space—not to mention my own bathroom—but the base is _freezing_. Like, _all the time_. Apparently the heating's been on the fritz since 1988. And if that wasn't bad enough…"

At first he tries to remain emotionless in the face of Skye's onslaught, but by the third hour ("I had a sex dream about Jay-Z the other night. And, I mean, on the one hand it was _awesome_, but on the other I felt super guilty when I woke up. Because he and Beyoncé are _perfect_ together and I do _not_ wanna be the one responsible for breaking them up, you know?"), he gives up and buries his face in his hands.

By the sixth hour ("I'm gonna be honest, I've started getting up an hour early every morning _just_ so I can accidentally run into Trip on his way out of the gym. Have you ever seen that man shirtless and sweaty? Best wake-up _ever_."), he's abandoned all dignity and is lying down with his pillow pulled over his head, trying to block out her voice. It's…not very effective.

This has _got_ to be against the Geneva Convention.


	82. Kiss on a dare (civilian AU)

A/N: safelycapricious asked: "Truth-truth-dare, Jemma's dare is that she has to kiss Skye's older brother, Grant. =D"

(So this thing happened where I told this enabler about a particularly embarrassing memory of mine, and she said "I'm sorry that happened to you but also I want Jemma/Ward fic of it." (#betrayal) So, here we are.

For those of you who don't know, Truth-Truth-Dare is a modified version of Truth or Dare, in which you're given one (particularly terrible) dare at the beginning of the game, and you go around sharing truths until you get a question you're not willing to answer, at which point you have to do the dare as a kind of forfeit. Just fyi.)

* * *

As Jemma climbs the stairs, she's feeling rather as though she's actually climbing to the gallows.

Why did she agree to this? What on _earth_ possessed her to play Truth-Truth-Dare with Skye, of all people? Skye's dares are always the absolute _worst_ possible things, and her questions aren't much better. Jemma has never _once_ managed to get through a game of Truth-Truth-Dare with her without forfeiting and accepting the dare. She should have _known_ that this time would be no different.

As soon as Skye gave her the dare, she should have backed out. She should have refused to play. She's two weeks away from earning her second PhD, for goodness' sake! She's smarter than this!

But Skye gave her that _look_ and asked "You aren't gonna refuse me on _birthday_, are you?" and, of course, she folded like a house of cards.

Pathetic.

Once she reaches the landing at the top of the stairs, she stops and takes a moment to steel herself. This is going to be humiliating. It is going to be terrible. But a dare is a dare, and there's no getting out of it.

So she takes a deep breath and proceeds down the hall in search of Grant.

Because her luck is clearly awful today, she finds him in the second room she checks—the study. He's sitting on the couch near the fireplace, reading a book, and when he glances up as she enters the room, the light from the lamp next to him throws his—ridiculously attractive—cheekbones into sharp definition.

This is horrible.

"Hey," he says. "Everything okay?"

Grant is, technically, supposed to be supervising them—a reasonable precaution, considering the fact that last year Skye's birthday party ended with the fire department being called. (Twice.) However, as he told them at the beginning of the party, he's just back from a hellish eight months doing things of a classified (and, presumably, violent) nature, and he's not in the mood for babysitting.

So he excused himself after the first ten minutes with nothing more than a warning not to get too crazy and a promise that he'd be upstairs if they needed him.

Skye joked that he was probably _actually_ going to climb out the window and run away from the collected menace of a group of teenage girls. Jemma sincerely wishes he had.

"Not really," she says, a little sadly, and he straightens.

"What's wrong?" he asks sharply. "Is anyone hurt?"

"Oh! Oh, no," she says, grimacing. "No one's hurt, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to alarm you. I'm just being dramatic."

"O—kay," he says slowly.

"We've been playing Truth-Truth-Dare, you see," she adds, apologetically, and Grant sighs.

"Now I see where this is going," he says, setting his book aside and sitting forward. "All right, what's your dare?"

"I—that is—"

She can't say it. She absolutely _cannot_ open her mouth and tell the man she's spent the past three years nursing a humiliating crush on that his sister dared her to kiss him. There is literally no possible way that she can get those words out without dying of embarrassment.

Embarrassment is inevitable, at this point. She might as well get it over with.

So she leans down and kisses him, just like that.

It's just as awful as she expected. It's obvious that she takes him off-guard, because he freezes completely. Not to say there's any guarantee that he would have returned her kiss, even had he been expecting it—in fact, it's highly unlikely—but it's not unlike kissing a particularly warm statue, and that's just…awkward.

Also awkward is the angle; he's still sitting and, in her heels, she's slightly unsteady, so despite her desperate desire to flee from his presence as soon as possible (so that she can get started on _pretending this never happened_), she rests a hand on his shoulder for balance as she starts to straighten.

She doesn't make it far.

She's barely put three inches between them when Grant unfreezes. He reaches up, wraps a hand around the back of her neck, tugs her back down, and _kisses_ her.

It's nothing like the awkward, chaste peck she just gave him. It's warm and intent and it only stays chaste for perhaps two seconds. At which point he nips at her bottom lip and she opens her mouth for him and _warm_ becomes _heated_.

It's no surprise that a man with Grant's looks has plenty of experience. She's always suspected it. But it's _very_ nice to have it proven. He's very _sure_—his lips and his tongue against hers, one hand firm on the back of her neck and the other gripping her thigh, thumb sweeping back and forth along the hem of her skirt, _just_ brushing the bare skin beneath.

In short, even if she _weren't_ so awkwardly bent over him and unsteady in her heels, her knees would probably still be weak. But she _is_ and the addition of weak knees means she's in serious danger of falling, and while this has been much less humiliating than expected (he's _still kissing her_), falling on him would definitely be mortifying.

But Jemma is a genius and she knows exactly how to solve this problem.

It requires breaking the kiss, which is unfortunate (oxygen—or the lack of it, rather—is becoming an issue, but against the heat slowly unfurling in her veins, breathing just doesn't seem important), but the reward outweighs the cost.

So she leans away from him (no simple task, between her own reluctance and the way he's holding her) long enough to shove him back against the couch. After which she straddles him and promptly resumes their kiss.

Perhaps it's bold of her, but Grant doesn't seem to mind. He makes an approving noise, low in the back of his throat, and his hands bracket her waist, shifting her slightly so she's more firmly settled in his lap.

The kiss drags out for minutes or hours—she couldn't say. She allows herself to get lost in it, in the passion and desire and _lust_ that overtakes her, and everything else fades away. The house could fall to pieces around them and she wouldn't notice, let alone care.

He is _very_ good at this.

Eventually, however, the burning in her lungs becomes too great to ignore, and finally, reluctantly, she pulls away from him properly. Her breathing is unsteady and embarrassingly loud, but it's difficult to worry about it. She has _ample_ evidence that he's been just as affected by their kiss as she has, and—even as she tries to catch her breath (not easy, with his lips at her neck, as they are now)—she shifts experimentally against said evidence.

Grant's hands clamp down hard on her waist, stilling her, and he swears as he slumps back against the couch. The look on his face is difficult to interpret, and suddenly, she's uneasy.

"Fuck," he says. He closes his eyes and thumps his head against the back of the couch, then repeats (somewhat more forcefully), "_Fuck_."

It's not the reaction she would have hoped for, were she able to think beyond the moment of the kiss, and her unease melts into something approaching embarrassment. She starts to move—to slide off of his lap—but his hands tighten even further on her waist, keeping her in place. To her embarrassment, she squeaks a little, and his grip immediately loosens.

He opens his eyes and gives her an apologetic grimace, sliding his hands down to rest on her thighs instead—not restraining, just a slight, warm pressure.

"Sorry," he says. "I just—fuck."

"Yes," she says. The mixed signals are beginning to confuse her; her embarrassment has faded, but now there's uncertainty in its place, which might be even worse. She doesn't know whether to blush or cry or kiss him again, and it makes her voice a little sharp when she continues, "You said that already."

"Sorry," he repeats. "Just—"

"If you say 'fuck' _one more time_," she starts, annoyed, and he laughs.

"That's not it," he says, looking—despite the laughter—somewhat pained. "It's—you're _seventeen_. And my little sister's best friend."

"Well, yes," she agrees, confused. "And?"

"And I'm twenty-two and not interested in adding corruption of a minor to my list of sins," he says. "So I'm gonna need you to stay still for a minute. Please."

Well, that's annoying. Also, she thinks, a lie; if the way he's been touching her thus far—to say nothing of the kiss—is any indication, she'd have to say that he is, in fact, _very_ interested.

"What are you saying?" she asks, deliberately shifting again. His hands tighten on her thighs, but only for a moment; then he forcibly relaxes them.

"I'm saying that I'd like very much to bend you over the back of this couch right now," he says, evenly. The words send a bolt of heat through her, and she starts a little, caught off-guard. "But you're seventeen and it's a terrible idea. So I need you to _stop. moving._"

Once she recovers from the effect his casual statement of intent had, she manages to process the rest of his words, and she frowns. Now she sees what this is about.

He's just being silly.

"Grant," she says, patiently. "Are you suggesting that my age is the only thing keeping you from taking this anywhere interesting?"

"I'm _suggesting_ that you're a minor," he says. "And this is one kind of trouble I _don't_ need."

"Actually, the age of consent in Massachusetts is sixteen," she supplies helpfully, and he closes his eyes, looking pained.

"Jemma. Please."

The look on his face—the desperation—is oddly exhilarating. _She_ put that there. _She_ is testing the limits of his control. Grant is one of the most self-contained people she's ever met; she's never seen him struggle with _anything_ before.

Watching him struggle over _her_—she feels powerful and slightly giddy.

She's tempted—very, very tempted—to push him further. His behavior seems to indicate he's on the very edge, and she would dearly love to push him over it and see what happens. (She's a scientist. Curiosity is a defining trait.)

(Additionally, she has literally never in her _life_ been this aroused before. The thought of just walking away without any sort of easing kind of makes her want to cry.)

But she reminds herself that Skye and the others are just downstairs, and while they might have been distracted by the game thus far, soon enough her absence will be noted and they'll realize just how long she's taken to fulfill her dare. They'll come looking for her, and _that_ would be humiliating.

And as fun as watching—_feeling_—him lose control would be, she thinks that watching him be guilty about it afterward would spoil it somewhat.

So she sighs. "Is it just my age holding you back? Do you actually want me, or is this just…the heat of the moment?"

"Oh, I want you," he assures her. "I've wanted you for—" He grimaces, a bit. "—longer than I'm really comfortable admitting, actually."

Well. Isn't _that_ something. She grins at him, some of her giddiness returning.

"What if I were to tell you that I'll be eighteen in three months?" she asks.

Something in his expression eases, and he grins back. "I'd ask if we could put this on hold."

"For three months?" she guesses.

"Exactly."

"That's acceptable," she decides, and leans forward to kiss him quickly. "But I expect at least three orgasms for my patience."

"Oh, I think we can do better than that," he muses, and his tone sends a delicious shiver through her. He squeezes her thighs once, then takes her by the waist again and carefully shifts her off his lap and onto the cushion next to him. "In the meantime, though, you should probably go back downstairs."

"Right," she says. "Good idea."

She stands and smooths down her skirt, which has been rucked up far beyond the point of decency. Perhaps she should make a stop in the restroom before going back downstairs and check herself over. She's feeling distinctly disheveled.

She glances at Grant, only to find him watching her with enough heat in his eyes that she has to dig her nails into her palms to keep herself from climbing back into his lap.

"I'll see you later, then?" she asks, slightly strangled.

"Yeah," he says. "Count on it."

And there's such a promise in his voice that she _has_ to flee the room before her good intentions can abandon her.

She wishes it were appropriate to take a shower at a friend's house in the middle of a party, because she could _really_ use a cold one right now.


	83. Let's kill Ward's wife

A/N: anonymous asked: "A couple of days ago, I discovered there's an actual 2014 movie called "Let's Kill Ward's Wife" (the plot is irrelevant) and I started cackling because I instantly could imagine a fic by you where some people actually set out to kill Jemma because she's Ward's wife and all I could think about was the hell there would be to pay once Ward found out. Can you write that, Amy? Can I leave this prompt with you for a fic based on that single sentence? I'll leave it, but I'm OK either way. Got my laugh."

* * *

Jemma is nearly home when she gets the text. She slows to a stop at a light and picks her mobile up out of the cupholder.

_Sorry, something came up at work. Don't wait up._

She texts back a quick acknowledgement as the light turns green, then drops her mobile back into the cupholder and continues on her way, not thinking much of it. For all that she and Grant work in entirely different fields for entirely different companies, their respective careers require a lot of the same things: late nights, total secrecy, and last-minute developments. It's nothing new for one of them to have to work all night, and they've learned to work around it.

She has a routine for the nights when Grant doesn't come home. She _prefers_ his presence, of course, but it's nice to have a night to herself every once in a while.

The first thing she does, as soon as she walks in the front door, is text him that she's home. He does worry so, and knowing that she's home safe will ease his mind.

Then, wifely obligation taken care of, she runs herself a hot bath and spends a while soaking off the stress of her day. She treats herself to a glass of wine as she does so, because she works with imbeciles and she deserves a reward for her patience.

After her bath, she gets dressed for bed—in one of Grant's shirts, because after five years of marriage she really doesn't sleep well alone, and the shirt helps a bit—and then wanders into the kitchen to find some dinner, switching on the news for background noise as she passes through the living room.

Jemma is an excellent cook, but it's been a long day and she's exhausted. So she decides to keep it simple and just reheat some leftover lasagne from a few days ago.

There are plenty of chores she could do to keep herself occupied while her food heats up—she and Grant do tend to let housekeeping fall by the wayside a bit when things get busy with their respective jobs—but she's feeling warm and sleepy after her bath, so she simply takes a seat at the kitchen counter and watches the timer run down.

The newscaster's voice filters in, and she swivels in her seat to face the television at a sudden change in tone. There's a BREAKING NEWS banner running across the bottom of the screen.

"A site of carnage has been discovered on the east side," the anchor says, looking attractively solemn. "Details are only just now filtering in, but early reports suggest there may be as many as thirty dead." He shakes his head, professionally sad. "Witnesses say it looks like a _massacre_." He gives a stern nod to the camera. "We'll keep you updated on this story as it develops. For now, here's the weather."

Jemma gives a considering glance to her mobile, which is charging on the counter and has been silent since she got home. Could it be…?

Then she shakes her head. She's just being silly.

The timer dings, and she puts thoughts of carnage and massacre out of her mind.


	84. Trust you? I don't even know you!

A/N: anonymous asked: ""Trust you? I don't even know you!" Biospecialist! :)"

* * *

"This really isn't that big a deal, okay? Trust me, I—"

"Trust you?" she interrupts. "I don't even _know_ you!"

Jemma is twenty-four years old when aliens invade New York. In the wake of the attack, she learns two things: aliens exist, and her husband is not who she thought he was.

"That's not true," he protests, all wounded innocence. "I'm still the same person you married, Jem."

"No, you're not," she disagrees. "Because the man I married worked as a translator for Interpol. _You're_ a bloody spy!"

"SHIELD was classified," he says, and he's above begging, but there's a plea in his voice nonetheless. "I wanted to tell you—"

"Then you _should have_," she says flatly.

They go around in circles about it for hours, and it's mostly her fault. Honestly, she's really not all that angry. She's not an idiot, after all, and she's long suspected that there was more to Grant's work than he was saying—translators, even those sent to war-zones, don't typically get shot and beaten on a regular basis (at least, not as far as she knows), and he comes home dented far more often than she'd like. So it isn't as though the revelation that he _actually_ works for some secret global security agency dating back to World War II is particularly shocking.

And though she's never worked for the government, she's done her share of classified research, and she knows that NDAs and the Official Secrets Act don't make allowances for keeping one's spouse informed about one's life. She knows that he really _couldn't_ tell her anything about his work.

Still, knowing that it's irrational doesn't stop her from being hurt at the fact that he's spent not only their entire marriage, but the whole of their acquaintance lying to her. Perhaps it's petty of her to take that out on him—she can tell he really is genuinely sorry (at least for the hurt he's caused her, if not for the deception itself)—but it makes her feel better, and so she does it anyway.

The matter eventually gets resolved, of course. She loves Grant far too much to let anything—even a secret this large—come between them. After he spends a few nights sleeping in the spare room (it would've been longer if he didn't keep getting called away to help with SHIELD's clean-up efforts) and she's had time to process everything, they sit down and have a very rational, mature discussion about the whole thing.

(Then they have some truly spectacular make-up sex, in the course of which they break two lamps and knock several pictures off the wall.)

In the end, everything is forgiven, and Jemma learns to accept Grant's choice of career.

Of course, said acceptance is sorely tested two years later, when SHIELD falls and he shows up in the middle of the night to kidnap her to some secure base in Canada _for her own good_. But that's another story.


	85. Seeking Solace

A/N: anonymous asked: "Biospecialist, seeking solace"

* * *

Jemma is exhausted—spending fifteen hours straight tending the wounded, with only the occasional five-minute break to keep her going (because even with forty-seven loyal SHIELD agents of various specialties on base, she's _still_ the closest thing they've got to a medic) will do that to a girl—but she wakes at once when the mattress shifts under her.

She waits, silent and still, until Grant has settled himself. She does her best to keep her breathing steady and even as he wraps himself around her—and is fairly certain she fails, but he's in no condition to notice. She aches to wrap him in her arms, to tell him that everything will be all right, but she knows that doing so will only scare him off. He's every inch the stoic specialist, and even after everything that's happened today, he won't be willing to show weakness to her. Honestly, she's beyond surprised (and touched) that he sought her out. This _thing_ between them is still fragile and new, only a few months old, and she was expecting him to retreat to lick his wounds in private.

She doesn't want to scare him off. So she waits, feigning sleep, as he presses his face to her shoulder. She can feel the tremor running through him, can tell by his less than gentle grip on her that he's teetering on the edge of his control, and her heart breaks for him.

But it's not until she feels his tears soaking through her shirt that she turns in the circle of his arms to face him. He tenses slightly, and for a moment she thinks he's going to try to pretend that everything is fine, but he just lets out a slow, shuddering breath, readjusts his grip on her, and tucks his face into the curve between her shoulder and her neck.

She doesn't know what to say. She doesn't know that there's anything she _can_ say. HYDRA is SHIELD, SHIELD is gone, and Grant's mentor is the monster that they've spent the past six months chasing. No amount of pretty words can make that better.

So she holds him close, strokes her hand through his hair, and lets him grieve.

* * *

A/N: Okay, this prompt collection is getting out of control, size-wise, so this will be the last chapter. All further prompts will be uploaded to a new collection, entitled _a second collection (is totally necessary)_, which I will be posting shortly.


End file.
